and in the night you'll hear me calling
by writingforhugs
Summary: "What did he do to you?" I murmur, horrified at the sight of Peeta Mellark, Seam-born bare-knuckle fighter, slumped against the wall of my bathroom with blood on his face and vomit on his shirt. ... Katniss Everdeen witnesses something she shouldn't have, something that brings her closer to a world she never wanted to enter.


**A/N: There is one sentence taken from Collins' Catching Fire, but like, don't sue me.** **Title from Oblivion by M83.** **Unbetaed.** **  
** **Find me on tumblr/pinterest/AO3 at the same name. Enjoy!**

...

The first time I see him there, it's completely by chance.

I'm in the back of the shop, later than I usually am, sweeping and cleaning the day away so that it's all tidy for business to begin again tomorrow morning. The back of the apothecary looks out onto a long row of houses, as many of the properties on this side of the town do, but I typically don't pay them too much attention.

Each house, small, identical, and poorly maintained, is home to a Peacekeeper. The Capitol built them to house the men and women sent here from District 2, but haven't touched them since. Despite the occupation of those who live there, it isn't a safe place to be. Over the years, it's developed into a miniature District 2, where homesick keepers can reject Twelve and its traditions.

At this time of night, the only people out and about should be the Peacekeepers enforcing the curfew.

So when I see a figure dipping in and out of the shadows, slipping through the darkness and the pockets of light thrown out by few and far-between streetlamps, I initially think nothing of it. I just continue sweeping.

When I look up again, stretching my spine after being hunched over the broom, I see that the figure has stopped.

I lean the broom against the countertop and peek through the window, pulling the lacy curtains aside. Mother doesn't like me to spy on our neighbours, forgetting that it is the main hobby of those who live in the Quarters.

The figure has stopped outside number thirty-eight. Grey paint peels from the brickwork, the sagging chimney coughs out black smoke, and the curtains are perpetually drawn.

I know this house. What it means for someone to stop there.

Head Peacekeeper Cray is infamous for his dealings with young women – young girls, too – from the Seam. But he lives further down the street, in number fifty-six, close to the bakery. Behind the door of number thirty-eight is another Peacekeeper, and a whole other set of rumours.

At number thirty-eight is Peacekeeper Harris. He came to District 12 a long time ago, and for all that time he's mostly kept to himself, even amongst his own people. I see him out on patrol as much as I do any of the other keepers, though he's often alone. The only person I see him speaking to on a regular basis is Cray.

Most keepers are fairly kind, acknowledging the truth of life in Twelve and cutting people some slack. In fact, most are absorbed into the population, becoming as much a citizen of Twelve than anyone born here. Many even start families after their terms as Peacekeepers have ended, as long as they aren't sent elsewhere.

But Harris is different. I remember as a child, playing with friends, when we'd accidently kicked a ball at his house. It had hit his front door and he'd thrown it open just as one of us went to collect it. We'd jumped back in fright, and we'd watched him stand there, motionless, looming over us with his dark eyes huge and glassy. He never said a word, puncturing the ball with a knife and throwing it back to us. It was enough to give me nightmares for weeks.

What exactly was _off_ about him, though, was always a mystery. I could never put my finger on it, until I learnt about Cray. My parents had always warned me to stay away from the Commander, though I'd never asked why, recognising when it was better to keep my questions to myself and respect the warnings that everyone else followed.

Cray takes in girls. They line up outside his door, desperate for coins, and he takes his pick. What goes on inside, I've never been able to imagine. Never wanted to, either.

Harris, in contrast, prefers men. Homosexuality is illegal in the districts, punishable by death, yet is apparently accepted and embraced in the Capitol. Even if the law here was relaxed, I doubt Harris would receive any additional customers. Prostitution, at least in Twelve, is a role almost inherently reserved for women.

While Cray will have a dozen or so girls lingering out his door during a drought or a long winter, Harris is lucky to have anyone at any time of year. Only the most desperate go to him. He may not be as prolific as his boss, but he is certainly more dangerous. Though it's never been confirmed, it's rumoured that Harris has one or twice plucked drunken men and boys off the street and held them in his property under the guise of keeping them out of trouble.

But his customers are so infrequent that it's easy to forget. To hide such thoughts deep down in the recesses of my mind. I have personally only seen one person at his door, and to this day I do not know their identity. Spying on Harris' home is not a habit of mine, of course. Just seeing the building out there is enough. But this movement along the darkened lane, and so late at night, catches my eye. And when they don't move from outside of thirty-eight, I can't help but watch.

The person is wearing a hood, so I can't see who they are. They're thin, hunched over. I think of the meal I ate for supper just a few hours ago and feel guilt spiral through me at the fact that I can be safe and warm and well-fed while someone else has to sell themselves in order to survive.

I watch with bated breath as the strange figure looks up at the house. I can't even begin to fathom how they must be feeling, what thoughts must be spinning in their head.

After a long moment, they knock on Harris' door, before taking a juddering step backwards. Less than a minute later, the door swings open, and Harris' heavy figure appears, barely illuminated by the dim light inside his house. I wonder if he waits close by the door in anticipation for a knock, like a viper in the grass.

He glances up and down the street, as if this is some big secret that he must hide from prying eyes. Perhaps he forgets that here, he _is_ the law, and that he'd be able to get out of any trouble he found himself him with the help of his fellow keepers.

Even in the quiet of the night and with the window propped open the let in some cool night air, I can't make out what Harris is saying. Whatever it is, the figure just shrugs in response, one foot placed slightly behind them as if they're ready to flee at any moment. Harris reaches out a hand, motioning for something, and the stranger pulls back their hood, revealing a shock of blond hair.

I frown. A _Merchant_? Surely not. No one in town is suffering to that extent. Even in this poor weather, we have enough to keep ourselves fed.

Harris motions for the person to step forward. His hand shoots out, tilting his customer's head back and from side to side, as if he were admiring an animal at an auction. It is only then that the person's face is revealed in the light of a streetlamp, and I feel my stomach bottom out.

It's Peeta Mellark. Not a Merchant. His mother was, though, and may have inherited the bakery if it weren't for her marriage to a born-and-bred Seam miner. In those days, that kind of union was a scandal, and the Mellarks were shunned as a result. Attitudes have changed since then, but they have remained very much on the periphery of district life.

Peeta has always seemed nice, though. Despite his stony exterior, reputation for getting into fights, and status as a pariah, I believe him to be a good person. The way people in town speak of him isn't right, not when he puts his life on the line to bring in fresh meat for trading. He's protective of his younger sister to the utmost degree. She is the only person who can truly make him smile.

To see him here is horrifying. I've witnessed people from the Seam starving to death all throughout my life, unable to do anything for them. Cray's line must have doubled in length over the last month or so, but Harris' place has remained quiet. Peeta must be his first customer of the season.

I didn't think it had gotten this bad, though his father did recently pass, which must be the reason why he's come here now and never has before.

I feel sick as Harris eyes his prey. Peeta's jaw is set and even from here I can see that his eyes are focused on something far away, that his fists are balled at his sides. He responds only when Harris asks him something.

After what seems like an eternity, Harris steps back into his house. Peeta follows. The door slams shut behind him, rendering the street once again empty.

I duck away from the window, feeling my heart thundering in the cavity of my chest. My hands shake as I put away the broom and wring out the rag I was using to clean the counters.

Ensuring the doors are locked, I hurry upstairs onto the domestic levels. My father is asleep on the couch, a Capitol newspaper lying on his chest, so I'm able to pass by without him waking. In the shower, I scrub at my body and try to think of something else. _Anything_ else. Recipes for salves, for creams, for syrups. Details about what people have ordered for the following week. But I can't. I can't do it. The image of Peeta vanishing into that house with that man replays in my mind, over and over. I feel sick, I feel faint. All I can think is _why, why him_?

…

The next morning, I wake to a clouded head. I cannot focus after suffering such a restless night's sleep, tossing and turning with images of Peeta's hollow face and Harris' looming figure.

I pick at my breakfast, listening to my brother complain about something or another, and stumble off to school without saying goodbye. In the schoolyard, my friends ask me if I'm okay, but I shake them off, telling the truth about my poor night's rest but not about what caused it.

At lunchtime, my friends chatter on around me but I can't find it in myself to participate in the conversation, let alone listen, and instead gaze around the crowded cafeteria. It's an almost perfect split of those with lighter hair and those with darker, mirroring the larger Merchant/Seam divide. And then, in the grey zone between the two, it's mixed, containing the Merchants who have friends from the Seam and vice versa, and those who are caught between either groups for other reasons. I must admit that this middle zone has been getting larger and larger.

I know who I'm looking for. Finally, I spot him, at a table in the corner. He's pushing food towards his younger sister, Primrose. Unlike him, she has a dark brown hair and pale Merchant skin, so can blend into the crowds much easier than he can. Peeta has a hat on, pulled way down over his ears and forehead, hiding the golden curls that would otherwise give him away amid the sea of dark-headed Seam folk on the other side of the hall.

I watch as Primrose pushes some of her meal back towards her older brother, her brow furrowed, but he simply shakes his head and hands it back to her, ruffling her hair fondly until she squirms out of his reach. Then, she starts to eat, her skinny frame in great need of nourishment. It's not the first time I've seen them sharing food, nor the first time Peeta has gone without, though I'd figured that with the extra money he must now have, he'd be able to spare something for himself.

A teacher wades through the crowd, making a beeline towards the two siblings. Hats aren't allowed indoors.

Peeta tries to bargain with the teacher, before reluctantly removing the offending item, stuffing it in the pocket of his jacket. The teacher walks away and Peeta faces the wall and his sister. She reaches out and touches her brother's face.

He doesn't turn around for the rest of the lunch hour.

I see him a little while later in the corridor. We're both headed in the same direction for Home Economics class. He's without Primrose, now, completely alone, isolated despite the crowds of people around him. It's like he's not even there, floating past in silence. He doesn't look at anyone as he ducks into the classroom. I follow.

He sits at the back like always, by the window. As I walk to my seat three desks in front of his own, I see his face, illuminated this time by the sunlight streaming in from outside.

A red-and-purple bruise adorns the right side of his face, the skin swollen and sore all the way from his eye to the corner of his mouth.

He must feel my gaze on him and lifts his chin from his hand. We make eye contact. It's only for a second, but it's long enough for his indifferent expression to melt away into one of realisation.

He knows Harris' place is close by the apothecary. That I saw. That I know.

His face ices over as he looks away, but I see the way his jaw tightens. I face the front and don't look back.

…

Three weeks pass before I see him in the street again. During that time, I've noticed how at school he's been a little less quiet, a little less subdued, the way Seam kids get when times are hard. The money he received from Harris must have been enough to buy them food. At lunch, I've seen him eating, even if it's only something small, like an apple.

Now, though, the money must have run out. He's been giving food to Primrose again, never eating any himself. It makes me look down at my own lunch, packed this morning in the kitchen, look like a giant's meal in comparison. I don't know how he's managing on such little food, though I suppose it's second nature by now. Living in the Seam often means going without.

It's past nightfall, and I'm sweeping the tiles by the backdoor; Rye traipsed in without wiping his boots on the mat, and when I'd complained about it, knowing that he knew that it'd be part of my chores later on, he'd pulled my braid and told me to stop whining. I'm annoyed– he's out with friends tonight, while I'm stuck here sweeping up _his_ mess.

My annoyance, however, is quickly replaced by anxiety when I spot Peeta walking down the street, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed. The hood is pulled up again, but I recognise the jacket as his. It didn't seem possible, but he seems even skinnier tonight, his clothes hanging off him.

I'm at the window again to watch him. My eyes widen when he glances towards the apothecary. His own gleam in the low light as they dart from window to window, looking for someone standing there. Looking for me. I'm well-hidden, so he doesn't, but even after he knocks he glances over his shoulder.

Harris opens the door and Peeta steps inside, swallowed up by the darkness of the house.

…

A few hours pass before I wake with a jolt. I squint in the gloom of my bedroom, orientating myself, and then swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, pushing my hair from my face.

I creep downstairs for a glass of water, the floorboards cool and creaking underfoot, and when I return to my room, the sound of a door opening and someone speaking floats on the hot summer air and through my window. I go to it, peering out into the street, bracing myself on the windowsill. From this angle, I'm opposite the top floor of number thirty five, but can still see clearly when Harris throws Peeta out.

I watch as Peeta trips out into the street, pulling at his jacket, and stumbles to the floor, landing hard on his hands and knees. To my surprise – and horror – Harris steps out too, landing a solid kick against Peeta's abdomen. A soft yelp escapes into the night. Harris disappears into his house, slamming the door shut. After a moment, Peeta stands, wobbling slightly, yanks his jacket fully over his shoulder, and walks away.

He's not heading in his usual direction though. The last time I saw him, he went up the hill away from the apothecary, not closer to it, where the house numbers descend from thirty-eight to thirty-seven to thirty-six to thirty-five, directly in front of me. I stand back a little in case he looks up and spots me there, loitering at my bedroom window, but he doesn't.

He only makes it to the spindly bushes outside number thirty-one before he throws up, the sound making me grimace.

He vanishes into the darkness a minute later and I sit on the edge of my bed, sipping water. When the glass is empty, I return to bed, but I do not – cannot – sleep.

…

The next day, he's missing from school.

Primrose isn't in the cafeteria but I do find her sitting alone in the yard, sheltering in the shadow of the wall.

"Primrose?" I ask, and she looks up. I crouch down beside her. She eyes me warily. "It's okay, I'm not going to take anything," I add, seeing how she moves the food in her hands closer to her chest.

She blinks at me with large, grey-blue eyes.

"You live above the apothecary," she observes, and I nod.

"I do," I say, reaching into my satchel. I pull out the cookie that was part of my lunch and hand it to her. Her eyes widen before narrowing in suspicion.

"I don't have any money," she whispers. I shake my head.

"It's a present." She frowns, looking from me to the cookie. Finally, she concedes, her skinny fingers taking the gift from me.

"Thank you," she says.

"That's quite alright," I reply, sitting beside her in the dust. I lean against the wall and watch as she unwraps the baked good, staring at it in amazement. "Primrose," I say, once she's happily eating. "Where's your brother?"

She shrugs. "He's sick," she explains around a mouthful of cookie. "He gave me a coin for lunch and told me to walk with Vick and Rory. I think he ate something funny. He didn't look very good."

I nod, schooling my expression into a neutral one even though inside it feels like a sledgehammer has been swung into my stomach.

"Okay," I reply. "I hope he gets better."

"Do you want me to tell him?" Primrose asks, her eyes shining.

"Oh, no," I hastily backtrack. "Primrose, I need you to promise me that you won't tell him about this. Not the cookie, not my questions, okay?"

"But why?"

"It's a secret. If you don't tell him, I'll bring you another cookie tomorrow."

"Really?" she asks. "Would you really?"

"Yes. But only if you promise not to tell him I asked where he was."

Primrose nods resolutely, reaching out a hand. I'm surprised but take it nevertheless, shaking it. "I promise. And I _always_ keep my promises."

"I bet you do," I smile.

"One time I promised Peeta I'd do my homework but I didn't but he didn't find out," she admits a moment later, her tone becoming serious and confessional. I laugh and she giggles.

"I won't tell him that if you don't tell him about this."

"Okay," she nods, and I let her chatter on throughout the rest of the lunch hour. Although I try to keep up with her and to respond with enthusiasm to her story about her goat, Lady, I can barely focus.

All I can think of is Peeta. Primrose didn't need to elaborate beyond 'he's sick' for me to figure out that obviously something happened at Harris', beyond what I witnessed in the street. It wasn't hard enough to cause serious damage, but it's still a cause for worry.

For Peeta to stay home instead of going to school is a big deal. Peacekeepers always come to check and if they deem you healthy enough, they'll take you back to school themselves. The punishment for repeated absences is severe and I know he wouldn't want to risk any trouble.

Just before the bell rings, I stand, and say goodbye to Primrose, wishing her a good day. She returns the sentiment, and I walk towards the school.

During the next lesson, Delly tries to talk to me about dresses, but I'm unable to keep up and she gives up soon enough.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Yeah. Just tired."

Delly frowns. "You seem to always be tired lately. Perhaps ask for something to help you sleep. I'm sure one of your parents can help you out."

I thank her and agree but can feel her watching me for the rest of the day, hovering in the way she does when she's concerned. Of course, I can't explain that the reason why my mind is preoccupied is because of the allusive Peeta Mellark.

…

At home that evening, my mother pulls me aside, feeling my forehead with her palm.

"You're not hot," she muses, frowning. "Have you been sleeping lately?"

"Not really," I mumble.

"Not staying out in the sun for too long?"

"Nope."

She rummages in a medicine cupboard, and brings out a little glass bottle filled with a pale blue liquid. "Before bed, mix a few drops of this into a hot drink. You'll get to sleep in no time."

I do as she says, and she's right. I pass out twenty minutes after placing my head on my pillow, and sleep through until morning.

…

Two days later, Peeta is back.

It's before school and I'm sat on a low wall in the school yard with Delly and the others, listening to Lillia fret about finding a husband before graduation next summer, when Jennie whispers _look!_ , drawing the attention of the group. I look up and follow her stare.

Peeta is walking through the gates of the school yard with his sister. She hugs him before running over to a girl her age, leaving him standing alone. He's an outsider, even in the social group he was born into. I know he is or was friends with the Hawthornes, though I believe their relationship was formed via Peeta's father, and don't know whether that connection has lasted now that Mr Mellark is dead.

Jennie tuts. "Why do Seam boys always feel the need to fight?" she asks. "Did you know they do it for money? They're absolutely animals. They'll never find wives if they act that way."

Lillia laughs. "He'll have no trouble. Seam women will marry anyone." She sighs, holding her head in her hands. "If only it were so easy for me."

I feel resentment building within me as Jennie laughs and Lillia complains. Things have changed in the past decade or so in regards to how people from the Seam and the town interact, in that the hostilities once felt have started to weaken, but Jennie and Lillia appear to be stuck in the past, still holding onto their prejudices. It's people like the two of them that cause problems for everyone else.

I turn my head to watch Peeta as he walks towards the school. His face isn't as badly bruised as it was last time, but I can see that he's trying his hardest to hide a limp. Years spent watching and helping my parents with patients and reading their medical books has taught me how to treat many ailments, but also how to see the pains and aches people try to supress. And although Peeta tries, but I can see how he's hurting in the stiffness of his body and the icy expression on his face.

He pushes past the student monitor stood on the front steps, ignoring their reminders about remaining in the yard until the first bell rings, and vanishes from sight.

"Katniss seems interested," Lillia says, and I look over at her. She smirks. She knows that I dislike her. "Looking for a little bit of danger?" she asks, eyes widening.

"We all a bad boy," Jennie echoes. "But not a _Seam_ boy."

The others laugh at her statement and I purse my lips. "We all know you two go to the slag heap with Seam boys," I snap, gathering my things. Someone ' _ooo'_ s and the others laugh. Lillia and Jennie glare. Delly catches my arm.

"Katniss?" she says gently, and I shake my head at her. She lets me go, and I walk away.

Peeta is elusive all day, popping up in class but resembling a ghost as he slips through the halls. I stand by my locker and glance at him as he walks past. He's holding his head up high but there's a tick in his jaw that I haven't seen before and a stillness in his eyes that dulls the stunning blue shade I saw speckled in his sister's.

That evening, I purchase a small jar of salve from the shop, placing some of the coins from my allowance into the register so my parent's won't get mad. I scrawl _for aches and bruises_ on the paper label. Perhaps this will be enough to begin repaying my debt to Peeta, and to show him that there's someone out there who cares.

I get to school early the following day and place the jar in Peeta's locker, easily jimmying open the rusted latch. I'm not there to see him find the gift, but within the week you'd never have thought he'd been injured. He's walking better, stronger, and his face is just barely tinged with yellowing bruises.

…

Delly corners me at lunch one day, dragging me into the bathrooms and shooing out the young girls milling around the mirrors.

"I know how you feel about him, okay?" she says, after checking each stall to ensure we're alone. "And I… I just don't want you getting involved. Please, Katniss. You're completely different people, from completely different worlds and getting caught up with whatever he's involved in is only going to get you hurt."

I play dumb, fixing my hair in the mirror. "What are you talking about?"

But Delly isn't stupid. "You've always had a soft spot. Don't even try to pretend that you don't. I see the way you keep an eye on him. But he's been involved in some illegal stuff, Katniss. You know that. I can't let you run around after him. He's a free agent. If he gets hurt, that's on him, and when you do, it'll be on him too." She places her hands on my upper arms and squeezes. "I don't want you getting hurt, Katniss. You're my best friend."

"I don't have a soft spot," I mumble, and she rolls her eyes.

"You do."

"I do not. And I don't watch him. I'll be fine, Dels."

"Maybe you will. Maybe you won't. And that's what I'm worried about."

"You don't even know him–"

"Neither do you! You think you do but you don't!"

A girl pushes open the bathroom door and Delly glares at her with so much ferocity that she turns on her heel and flees.

"Look, I get it. He saved your life. It's a big deal. But that was years ago, and he's never given any indication that he wants something in return, has he?" I'm unable to meet her eyes. "Katniss, acting like you're duty-bound to help him isn't going to end well. You don't owe him anything."

"That's not what–"

"I'm not saying he's dangerous. I'm just saying that a person like you shouldn't be around a person like him."

I bristle. "What do you mean _a person like him_?"

"Look at his parents. At what happened because of them."

"They loved each other," I say, frowning. "And things are better, now, Dels."

"Do you think it was worth it? You think they never regretted getting married?"

"I don't know why you're talking about marriage all of a sudden." I fold my arms over my chest. "Besides, I'm never _around him_. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Lillia picked up on you staring. That's just the start of it. Rumours can kill in this town, Katniss. Once they start, there'll be nothing you can do about it. About what happens to the people around you because of it."

I stare at the floor. "There's nothing between us, Delly. There never will be."

"Let him get on with his life, whatever that may entail. Don't waste your breath on someone who doesn't watch your back when you turn away."

"I just want to show him that someone cares. That he shouldn't have to…" I trail off, aware that I'm wading into dangerous waters, that I could reveal what I know and destroy Peeta's life in one fell swoop. The unspoken vow of silence between Peeta and I is the only thing stopping the truth getting out.

"So you have a crush. That's fine– we all get crushes. But it's my job to stop you getting consumed by it," Delly says, hugging me close. I squeeze her tight. There's so many things I want to say. So many things I want to prevent. But I can't do anything without hurting Peeta. I have to stay quiet, and agree with Delly.

"Okay," I whisper into her ear. She pulls back, smiling. "You're a good friend," I tell her.

She brushes a piece of hair from my face. "He's cute, I know."

I feel a red-hot blush bloom over my cheeks and she laughs.

"Even Lillia thinks so," she says, and the smile that was turning the corner of my mouth falters. Delly loops her arm through mine. "But I think she knows to back off now, after what you said to her! I can't believe you did that– she was so mad, acting like her going to the slag heap was this big ol' secret."

We leave the bathroom and head to our next class. Delly sits beside me, chattering away, and I'm almost able to block him out, but I can feel a pair of eyes on me from the back of the room for the rest of the afternoon and know that it's him.

…

I lose track of how many days pass, but he goes back to Harris. When it happens, I'm putting a bag of trash into the cans at the back of the store, and movement at the corner of my eye catches my attention.

I look up to see him looking at me, hands deep in his pockets. He's not hiding. We're in plain sight of each other. I hold his gaze for a moment. Is this a challenge? Is he daring me to do something?

Embarrassed, I duck my head and hurry inside, shutting and locking the door. My heart pounds as I slide to the floor, back against the wall. I'd hoped he wouldn't come back. The weather has become much milder over the past month and Primrose has certainly been looking healthier. There doesn't seem to be a clear reason that I can think of for why he'd return.

I stand after a moment, and all I see is Harris' door slamming shut. I don't see Peeta leave.

…

I'm manning the shop when Harris comes into the store a week later. I grip the countertop, feeling myself recoiling as he walks closer. He asks for one of my parents. I call back for my father, but can't look away from the man, from his sallow skin and black eyes. He notices my behaviour, narrowing his eyes, but doesn't say a thing. My father appears but I can't move, frozen in place.

New signage, says Harris. Fresh from District 7. The Capitol wants them in every store, to serve as a reminder to the citizens of Panem of their duty.

My father can't refuse, of course, and hangs it on the wall. Harris nods. Glances at me, frowns, and leaves.

I see plenty other signs around town, painted onto walls, stapled to posts, hung inside stores.

 **REPORT DISTURBANCES TO YOUR LOCAL PEACEKEEPER**

 **PROTECT THE PEACE, PROTECT PANEM**

Each one has the Capitol seal, each one reminding us of who the Peacekeepers are, and what we are to them. That they are put in place to protect Panem's loyal citizens, to deliver justice and keep order within our streets.

We later find out that there was a disturbance in District 11. The commanding officer there shot two children for stealing and the ensuring riot left three keepers dead. The Capitol bombed a village in retaliation. These posters are simply reminders of their military strength. We are ants beneath their boots.

…

By mid-October, I haven't spotted Peeta at number thirty-eight for almost two months. The weather has softened since the summer drought though we're not far from our first frost. The supply trains have been frequent and life in Twelve isn't so bad, even for those in the Seam. I never see a Seam child without something to eat for lunch, and that includes Peeta and Prim.

So when I spot Peeta at Harris', I feel like screaming. I want to race out there and shake his shoulders and demand to know what is going on. He's regained some weight, as has his sister, and I've seen him trading in town. I guess I'd foolishly started to hope that he wouldn't need to come back to these parts.

This time, I stand boldly by the window, spectating as he knocks and enters Harris' house. Fury and confusion and disgust and despair all roll within me. He doesn't look my way or converse with the Peacekeeper, just stepping into the residence when the door is opened to him. I am completely unable to understand it.

I sit in the kitchen with a hot cup of calming herbal tea. My parent's business means we're always well-stocked with all manners of lotions and potions, and I know each one like the back of my hand. Still, even this tea isn't enough. I sit and stir, the spoon clinking against the enamel mug.

With my eldest brother at his own home, my parents at a business conference out of the district, and Rye sound asleep upstairs, I'm left alone, with no one to scold me for staying up so late. I pace, watch the street outside, mop the floors and tidy the shelves even though Fridays aren't my chore days, before finally conceding defeat and heading to bed.

Clearly Peeta's relationship with Harris is not what I believed it to be, if he's returning time and time again, even though I see no reason for him to do so. Am I simply a naïve Merchant girl, unable to understand the uphill struggle that is life in the Seam? I don't think I am, but this has me questioning the idea. Unwarranted but potent anger bubbles in my chest as I shower and climb into bed, thinking of what Delly said all those months ago.

I didn't really admit it then, but I _do_ feel like I owe him. He saved my life and I've never even tried to thank him. But maybe Delly is right; perhaps I shouldn't be so concerned over what he does. I don't really know him and he never has made any request for me to give him something in return. It isn't my duty to save him, and that includes from sleazy Peacekeepers.

I roll over in bed, listening to Rye snoring through the wall, and fall asleep frustrated over one question in particular. Should I care about Peeta, even if he's never asked for help?

…

A slamming door and a short burst of yelling is what wakes me. It's a few hours past midnight, the sky still dark and the Quarters silent and deserted. No one is expected to be awake this early, not the first-shift miners in the Seam, nor even the Merchants who need to prepare for the day ahead. The only souls roaming the streets of Twelve at this hour are strays and the homeless.

I blink, still-half asleep. Rye is no longer snoring, and the house is dark and still. I press my nose into my pillow and close my eyes again, clinging onto the tendrils of sleep lingering in my head, but then, there it is again. A shout, drifting in from the street.

I sit up and go to my window. My family finds it strange that I keep it cracked open whatever the weather, but I can't sleep otherwise. I furrow my brow, looking out into the gloomy lane, and watch Harris chucking Peeta out into the street. Peeta falls over the doorstep and lands on the damp ground with a dull thud, and then remains still. Harris glances up and down the street before slamming his door shut, the boom reverberating through the night air.

My heart is in my throat as I watch Peeta lying in the middle of the road.

He doesn't move. I grip the window frame.

"Come on, Peeta. Get up," I whisper.

It feels like hours but can't be more than thirty seconds before he finally _finally_ rolls onto his back. He stares up at the night sky for a moment before his hand reaches out and he tries to push himself to his feet. He wobbles away, slowly, drifting left and right. Even in the moonlight I can see that he's in bad shape. Worse than the other time, when he missed school.

He walks down the street, painfully slow and hunched over, and only makes it a little way away before collapsing again. This time, he doesn't get back up.

I watch his body lying in the dirt with bated breath, unsure as to what to do, praying that he'll have the strength to get up, to get back to his sister and mother.

When a minute passes and he's still crumpled on the ground, I pull a robe over my nightclothes, hurry down the stairs as quietly as possible as to not wake Rye, and shove my feet into some boots. My hands shake as I fumble with the lock on the backdoor, and I take a deep breath before rushing out into the darkened street and towards Peeta.

I slow as I get closer to him, my heart beating so fast that I can hear it in my ears. He's so still. _Too still_. He's lying on his side, his jacket hanging off him, revealing a sliver of his pale neck. I glance up and down the street and find no prying eyes, so move around so I can see his face without having to touch him. His nose is buried in the dirt and his eyes are closed. His golden hair glows in the moonlight, falling over his forehead in curls and waves.

"Peeta?" I whisper, not wanting to draw any attention from the people sleeping around us. I get no answer so step a little closer. "Peeta, wake up!" I hiss. He still doesn't move, doesn't make any sign to indicate that he's alright. I nudge him gently with the toe of my boot. Nothing.

I wrap my robe tightly around me, feeling the chill of the night permeating my pyjamas. I don't know what to do, and can feel panic building inside me. I'm the daughter of two apothecaries – I out of anyone should be able to handle this. And I can, I know I can. I've assisted my parents with patients before and know how to help people but suddenly this seems way more serious than I can handle by myself.

I exhale, forcing myself to breathe slowly and think clearly. I need to be bigger than any fear I'm currently feeling. I crouch down and place my hand on Peeta's shoulder, shaking him.

"Peeta," I say again, and he flops over onto his back. I shake him again, placing a hand on his chest. He makes a sound, then, a ragged exhale, a sound of discomfort. I remove my hand, almost crying out in relief. The possibility that he was dead did cross my mind. "Peeta," I repeat, and he frowns, his brow knotting together, before opening his eyes. They're a dull blue colour, unable to focus – he's clearly disorientated.

"Katniss?" he slurs, and I smile. It's good that he knows who I am, that he's not totally out of it.

"Hey, yeah, it's me. It's Katniss," I tell him. "You need to get up now, okay?" He groans when I try to pull him upright by his elbow. "Peeta, come on. You have to move," I whisper. He's too heavy for me, despite his slimmer frame, but if I can't get him out of here, there's a strong possibility that Harris or another Peacekeeper will hear and come rushing out.

After a few moments of trying to get him to stand, he manages to get onto his feet, but leans heavily against me as I drag him along. His head lolls and he winces with every step, and all I can think about is how Harris could be watching all this right now, lurking and ready to strike.

I'm relieved when we reach the dome of light flung out by the open backdoor of the shop, and I haul Peeta inside. He starts to mumble as I attempt to shut the door behind me.

"He din-didn't… he didn't pay," he moans. "He didn't e-even pay," he croaks, words melting into each other. He staggers and his movements are so jagged that I'm unable to hold him anymore, and he trips, almost hitting his head on the corner of the table before miraculously catching himself. In the process, though, he knocks a canister across the table top, and I only just manage to save it from tumbling to the floor.

"Peeta," I wince, hyperaware of how quiet this house is, how Rye isn't the heaviest sleeper, and how loud Peeta is being. "Peeta, please, you have to be quiet," I beg him. I thank the gods that my parents are out of town for the night, or this would've been a disaster already.

I take him to the little bathroom we have attached to the shop kitchen, sitting him down on a chair. He's still for a moment before lurching for the toilet, barely making it in time before he vomits. I cringe, closing the bathroom door to block the sound but popping open the tiny window to let in some fresh air.

I pour Peeta a glass of water and hand it to him. He grips it loosely but manages to take a sip. I wet a rag, and use it to wipe his face and sweep his shaggy hair back from his forehead. He blinks up at me, looking sorry for himself.

In the light of the bathroom, I'm finally able to see the damage. Red marks litter his face, dipping down over his jaw and onto his throat, and blood is crusted around his nose and mouth. When I move the rag away from his head, it comes back stained red. Harris must have hit him with something harder than his fists.

"What did he do to you?" I murmur, horrified at the sight of Peeta Mellark, Seam-born bare-knuckle fighter, slumped against the wall of my bathroom with blood on his face and vomit on his shirt.

He doesn't reply, eyes drifting close, and for a moment I think he's passed out, but he jolts awake a second later. I make him drink the rest of the water and go to the sink, rinsing the rag under the tap. My hands shake as I do so, and I stare at myself in the mirror, seeing myself reflected there but not feeling at all present in the current situation. My head is spinning. I feel like I could throw up as well. I turn off the faucet and straighten my back. I have to focus. I have to help Peeta.

I go back to him, kneeling down on the hard tiled floor. I lift his head with a gentle hand against his jaw and his eyes flutter open again. I see his irises swirling around behind his lids, unable to focus on anything. I dab at his face, trying to wipe away the blood I see there, and he hisses when the corner of the rag makes contact with the delicate skin beneath his left eye.

"I'm sorry," I mumble. "I'm sorry, Peeta."

He says nothing in return.

Neither of us speak as I clean his face. At this proximity to him, I'm able to see the length of his eyelashes and the silvery scar that streaks across his chin and the freckles dotted over his nose. He watches me as I dab at his face, and I feel my cheeks redden under his gaze. I've never been close to a boy like this, apart from my father or brothers, and I'm well aware of how close our faces are.

I tell him to close his eyes as I work the rag over his eyebrow, trying to clean up his face before addressing his other injuries. His lip has bust but has thankfully stopped bleeding, though his nose is still running red. I fold up a wad of toilet paper and get him to hold it against his nose to stem the flow, and when he does, I see the roughness of his hands, the scars on his knuckles turning his skin pure white.

I go into the kitchen and wrap some ice in a cloth, bringing it back for him to hold against his face. He does as I ask, and tilts his head back against the wall, eyes closed. I appreciate that he's not watching me anymore.

I check his nose. It's stopped bleeding, thank god, but there's nothing else I can do for his face. I sit back on my heels. If this is the condition of his face, I hate to know what the rest of him is like.

I set the rag aside and reach for his shirt, intending to get him to lift his arms so I can remove it, but suddenly he's grabbing my wrist and pushing me back. His eyes are wider and clearer, as if his pain has pulled him out of his semi-conscious state. His movements are sharp as he climbs to his feet and shoves past me, lurching into the kitchen. Picking myself up, I follow, grabbing him as he makes for the door. He's gritting his teeth in pain – it's clear he's got injuries more severe than a busted lip, and I need to see what it is. He can't go home, not now, not so late at night. He could pass out in the street, and anything could happen to him then.

"Peeta, wait! Stop!" I hiss, pulling at his shirt. He shakes me off, trying to unlock the backdoor, and when he realises he doesn't know how to work the latch, he turns on me.

"Let me _go_ ," he spits, holding his side.

"You're hurt, Peeta. Just let me–"

"I don't need anything from you," he snarls, stalking me. I step backwards, bumping into a chair and then coming to a rest with my back against the wall. "I don't _need_ your help. Open the door."

"Peeta–"

"Open the damn door!" he shouts, and I grimace. That'll wake Rye. "I'm fine! I don't need you to interfere."

He walks forward until he's right in front of me. Now I can see him at his full height, broad shoulders looming above me, eyes filled with fury. I don't consider myself to be a person who is easily intimidated, but as he advances, I feel a spike of fear piercing my chest. Delly was right. I don't know him. I don't know what he's capable of.

"I'm not trying to… I just want to make sure you're okay. You were passed out in the street, Peeta. Let me help you."

"I don't _want_ your help," he snaps. "Do you understand what I'm saying? I don't _want_ help, I don't need anyone's help or charity or pity, at the very least _yours_. So let me out before I make you regret–"

Neither of us hear Rye thundering down the stairs or entering the kitchen, awoken by Peeta's shouts, but suddenly he's barrelling into the room and yanking Peeta away from me, almost flinging him across the room. Peeta falls onto his side and curses, face creasing in pain. Rye, hair mussed from sleep, stares at him and then goes to me.

"Are you alright?" he asks, eyes wide, chest heaving. "How'd he get in? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I say, pushing past him to Peeta.

"Katniss–" he says, confused.

"I'm fine, Rye," I tell him. "Quickly, help me." I crouch down beside Peeta, who's lying on his back, clutching his side, gritting his teeth against the pain. I look back at my brother. "Rye, now!"

"What's he doing here?" he asks. "What's going on, Kit?"

I look at Peeta. He doesn't seem to have heard Rye's question, and I can only hope that he doesn't hear my answer. I lower my voice regardless, facing my brother.

"Harris," I say, and his eyes widen. "He's been going to him… I've seen him getting kicked out before but he always got up. This time he didn't. I have to help him, Rye."

He's unconvinced, suspicious of the Seam boy lying on the floor behind me. "You saw him in the street?"

"Watched Harris kick him out. Look at him, Rye. Look what that man did to him! We have to help him. We have to."

Rye purses his lips, obviously conflicted. He's thinking of our parents, of what they'll say if they find out that while they were gone, we were treating people who could never afford to repay us.

I grip his hand. It's so much softer than Peeta's. "Mother and father don't have to know. They don't. But we can't just leave him… Rye, come on."

He swallows, pushes his hand through his hair, and sighs. "Okay. Okay." He stands. "Help me get him on the table."

Rye's always been a good healer. Unless his wife has a business to inherit, like Fenton's did, he'll definitely takeover the family business. It's a good thing. He's able to keep a cool head in stressful situations, and has more of a heart than our parents do, meaning he's more likely to treat Seam folk without giving them a hard time.

So, I do as he says, clearing the table and pulling out a sheet to place on top. Rye crouches down beside Peeta and tries to speak to him, but Peeta is delirious, his head lolling back and forth. Rye peels back his eyelids.

"It's… it's like he's drunk," he says, frowning. "I can't understand it." He puts his arms under Peeta's shoulders. "Grab his knees, Kit."

We lift him together and Peeta gasps at the movement, but otherwise remains limp as we manhandle him onto the table.

"What have you done so far?" Rye asks me, heading to the window and the door to secure the curtains fully, before switching on the rest of the lights and going to the sink to wash his hands.

"I helped him walk in–"

"He was alright on his own feet?"

"Sort of. He leaned on me but he could walk. I brought him in. He threw up in the toilet but he did drink the water I gave him. I cleaned the dirt and blood off his face and got him to hold a pack of ice. He's been hit over the head- there's blood in his hair. When I tried to remove his shirt to see the damage, he tried to run."

Rye grimaces. "I guess pulling him away from you wasn't the best idea, then," he mutters, pushing his hair back from his face. He secures one of my old headbands behind his ears. We used to make fun of him for it, but when he decided that he liked his hair a little longer, it was the only way for him to keep it out of his eyes while treating patients.

"I suspect a rib injury," I say, washing my own hands. "But we can't know for sure unless we get that shirt off."

Rye looks down at Peeta. "Kid, can you hear me?" he says. Peeta mumbles something but neither of us can make it out.

"Did he say anything to you?" he asks me as I rifle through a drawer to pull out a pair of scissors.

"Only that he didn't need my help."

I begin cutting off Peeta's shirt, knowing that if it _is_ a rib injury, Peeta needs to remain still. Rye lifts him slightly so I can pull the material free, and I realise I was right; his face isn't the only injured part of his body. His torso and arms are littered with bruises, some small, some larger, including a red mark on his side in the shape of a boot. Rye curses under his breath. I feel my stomach turn.

"That's enough to crack a rib," says Rye, probing Peeta's side. The Seam boy groans. "I don't think it's broken, but it's probably better than he stays a little out of it for the moment."

There's little we can do for Peeta's bruises, but it's decided that the best course of action for his ribs is to apply a numbing lotion and secure an icepack against his skin. I try to be as gentle as I can as I apply the lotion, but Peeta seems to come around then, and starts moving too much. When Rye tries talking to him, he panics.

"Katniss, he knows you, calm him down," Rye says, and we swap positions. I go to stand close to Peeta's head. His eyes are clear, like they would be on a normal day, though I can't tell if it's now worse, since the clarity brings with it the certainty of his pain, of everything he's feeling right now.

"Peeta," I say, grounding him with a hand on his shoulder, and his gaze stops rotating around the room and locks on me. I'm a little thrown under such an intense stare. "Peeta, I need you to stay still, okay?"

"Katniss," he murmurs, his hand twitching up to clasp around my wrist.

"It's alright," I tell him, hyper aware of his fingers burning into my skin, of his thumb swiping over the joint. "We think you have a fractured rib, Peeta. That's why you're in so much pain. You need to stay still so we can make you feel better."

I glance over at Rye who's working on Peeta's side, loosely bandaging a pack of ice against his side. It'll help with the swelling and the pain, but it won't fix the bone. That will take time and it will hurt until it does. My brother's eyes meet mine. I look away.

"Who's… who's…?" Peeta slurs, and I gently squeeze his shoulder.

"Rye, my brother. I couldn't help you alone," I reply. He blinks, slow and steady. "He won't tell anyone, I promise," I add, and he looks past me, up at the ceiling.

I move away from him, and he remains still. I stand beside my brother. We watch Peeta.

"I want to look at his head," Rye says, his voice laced with concern. "I don't like how he's acting."

"I'll get some sleep syrup," I whisper. When my brother protests, I shake my head. "He needs to be still. He could use the rest, too."

We both look at our surprise patient. At the shadows beneath his eyes, at the bones cresting beneath his skin. He's not as skinny as he was, which is good, but he's still verging on the edge of starving. I think of him in comparison to my brothers, who have always been strong and well-fed, and to myself, never going without supper, and know that I will never fully understand what it is like to be from the Seam. I may know hunger, but they know death as if it were an old friend.

Rye agrees to the sleep syrup and I find a vial on one of the shelves. Rye lifts Peeta's head, while I tell him that we have some medicine to heal him and pour a few drops into his mouth. He swallows and it only takes a few minutes before he's drowsy, and finally falling unconscious.

"You look at his head," Rye says, and I go to grab some gauze and bandages. It doesn't look that bad- there hasn't been blood gushing down his face or anything, but head injuries are serious things. In District 12, we don't have the internal imaging machines that they have elsewhere- if someone has a tumour or a bleed or anything else, we usually don't know until it's too late. Peeta's dull eyes and slurred speech are cause for concern, especially considering we don't know what Harris did to him before he was dumped into the street.

I turn back to address Peeta's head and squeak, spinning away again, when I see that Rye has removed Peeta's pants.

"It has to be done, Kit," Rye says, placing the pants atop Peeta's shoes. He keeps his socks on, though, owing to the cold. "You've seen worse." Thankfully Peeta's legs seem to be unscathed, apart from some bruising around the knees and a light scrape atop his right leg. Rye pokes and prods for a moment longer, and then covers him with a blanket.

I'm glad he's covered, anyway. Rye is right, I _have_ seen worse; once a child fell into the path of a train at the station. A leg and arm were mangled, and had to be removed. I was thirteen at the time, shopping in the square with my friends, and will never forget the sight of people carrying the small child through the town, of the child's stunned silence, of the blood trail that followed the crowd. I'd hurried back to see if my parents needed help, and my brothers, looking pale, had ushered me away.

I tend to Peeta's head. There's a small gash in his scalp, but that seems to be it for the damage, the swelling relatively minimal. Of course, only time will tell with this kind of injury, so I clean the wound, stitch it shut, and bandage it to prevent infection.

As the town's main source of medical care, we occasionally have patients who stay the night, and thus we have two tiny recovery rooms attached to the back of the shop. They have a window, a bed, and a chair, and are practical, not pretty. Rye makes up a bed for Peeta. He'll have to stay overnight, not only so we can ensure he doesn't get into any more trouble, but because curfew doesn't break for another few hours yet. Rye and I are both tired, and Peeta's deadweight as we lift him into the bed doesn't help. We clean up the kitchen and the bathroom, and quickly discuss what we're going to do next.

"Don't mention it to Fen," Rye says, sipping a hot drink. I sit beside him. The door to Peeta's room is ajar. He can call if he wants, though I doubt he'll be awake until mid-morning. "He'll blab to mother."

"Agreed," I say, feeling my eyes drooping.

"We'll keep him here. In the morning I'll have a message sent to the Mellarks, let them know he's okay. We'll have to take him back to his place before our parents come back."

"You'll have to write a note saying he needs bedrest," I say. "The keepers will haul him into school otherwise."

"Good point," Rye remarks, scribbling a reminder down on a scrap of paper. "When he wakes, we'll check him over again, see how he feels when he's conscious."

"Okay."

Rye sighs, scrubbing his face with his hands. "Kit, look, I know you're old enough to handle yourself… to make your own decisions and what not… but I still want you to be careful, alright?" He smiles tiredly. "Whether it's a crush or a–"

"It's not," I quickly interject, thinking of Delly. _It's not._

" _Whatever it is_ ," Rye raises his eyebrows. "Don't get in trouble, yeah? Promise me you'll use your head." He stands and ruffles my hair with his hand. I bat him away. "I won't pry into your personal life," he says, putting our cups in the sink. "I'm not that much of a jerk."

I roll my eyes but can't fight my smile.

"Are you staying up with him?"

I look back at Peeta's door. "Yeah."

"I'll be up before eight. Get some sleep then, okay? I'll look after him."

I stifle a yawn. "I'm not tired."

"I'll see you later," Rye says, shaking his head.

I listen to him ascend the stairs on heavy feet. This house is old, creaky, and doesn't block sound very well. I'm almost able to hear his mattress groaning as he passes out into it, and his ensuring snores, though I'm also so exhausted from the past few hours that I don't know what's real and what isn't.

All I know is that Peeta Mellark is currently sleeping eight feet from me, and about a hundred from the man who hurt him in the first place.

I stand and go into Peeta's room. He's sleeping like a log thanks to the sleep syrup. I adjust his blankets, making sure he's warm. His face is already swelling up and he'll no doubt be aching when he wakes up, but this is the best we can do for him right now. If he'd managed to get home after whatever happened to him tonight, I can't see him doing well. There's even a possibility that he'd never wake up again. It's possible that that could be the outcome here, but at least with us, his odds are more in his favour.

I slump down into the chair beside his bed. I intend to stay awake, to ensure he's safe and comfortable, but I feel myself drifting and jolting awake over and over again until eventually, as the sun begins to rise, I succumb to sleep.

…

Rye appears around eight, as promised. Peeta is still out of it; I woke once or twice, confused before remembering where I was and why, and found that he was a little feverish, but other than that he seemed alright.

Rye promises to call me down if anything happens after I tell him about Peeta's fever, and then I head upstairs to get some sleep.

When I wake again, I'm still tired, but grateful for the hours of rest I've managed to snag. I sit on the edge of my bed, listening to the sounds of the town drifting through my window before standing to get dressed. My nightgown has a little bit of Peeta's blood on it, so I soak it in the bathroom to try and get rid of the stain.

I go to hang it over my windowsill so it can dry, and spot Harris coming out of his house, clad in his Peacekeeper uniform, with his helmet under his arm. I feel rage flooding through me at just the sight of him. I so badly want to report him, want to have him punished for he's done, but know that nothing would come of it. If anything, things would be made worse for Peeta. I know that I have to keep my personal vendetta against the man supressed and silent, for Peeta's sake.

Rye is organising the ledger when I come downstairs.

"He's alright," he greets me, not even looking up from the book. "Woke up about an hour ago but he won't talk to me. I've already sent a message to his folks, letting them know we have him and that he's okay."

"Does he still have a fever?"

"Yes, but it's way better than it was. I've given him something for the pain- there's not much else we can do except keep him still."

"Has he eaten?"

"No. I made him drink something. He'll want to talk to you."

I nod, suddenly feeling anxious. The door to Peeta's room is closed now, though I'm aware of how thin the walls are. I grab a glass of water and chug it, needing to feel refreshed, and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"He looks like shit, Kit," Rye says quietly. "He won't care if your hair is nice or not."

I glare at him, feeling my cheeks redden, and he just shrugs, before returning his attention to the ledger and the stack of notes beside it that need to be fully entered into the book.

Peeta's eyes snap open when I push open the door. I greet him, and he doesn't make any noise in response, or change the stony expression of his face. I guess he wasn't too happy to wake up and find himself here.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, closing the door but staying close to it. I don't want to crowd him, especially now that he's fully awake.

Silence.

"You had a fever during the night but Rye said it'd broken."

Nothing.

"If you're in a lot of pain I can get you something for it but I'm afraid that rib injuries tend to hurt until they've mended themselves."

He tilts his chin slightly, watching me. I guess he feels exposed, propped up under a blanket while I stand by the door, but I'm annoyed that he won't even answer my basic questions, especially now that he's lucid. It's amazing how stubborn he can look, even with a swollen face.

I frown. "The silent treatment really isn't going to work, Peeta. Rye said you wouldn't speak to him either. We aren't going to tell anyone about–" I lower my voice. "– _Harris_ , if that's what you're worried about. Rye isn't like that, and nor am I, or don't you think we would've told someone by now?"

Peeta's nostrils flare. I cross my arms over my chest.

"Your brother came in here and warned me about getting involved with his kid sister," he drawls, his voice thick and gravelly. "Forgive me for lacking in pleasantries."

I sigh. "He said the same thing to me, so–"

"He thinks we're an item?" Peeta barks out a laugh before he can stop himself. I almost take pleasure in his wince of pain, but the hurt that flashes through me at his reaction to that idea, brief and sharp as it is, stops my satisfaction in its tracks.

"I'll get you something to eat," I mutter, leaving him alone. Rye doesn't say anything as I bustle around the kitchen, grabbing crackers, preserves, and pouring some water. I return to Peeta and sit on the chair beside his bed to eat in silence. I finish first, as he seems to be taking his time, and I wonder when was the last time he ate something from the bakery, or anything at all.

I watch him, seeing how it makes him uncomfortable, until he blinks at me and says: " _What_?" I shrug, taking away the dishes and the glasses and returning with some bandages and clean hands.

"I need to look at your head," I say, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. "Stay still."

He does as I ask as I peel back the bandage. The gash is healing nicely, so I apply a balm to aid with reducing any scarring. While Peeta is still and silent, I decide to question him, figuring that now is a better time than any.

"What did Harris do to you?" I ask. I feel him tense up immediately, and watch his jaw working. When he doesn't reply, I speak again. "Fine. If you aren't going to say how you got a fractured rib among other injuries, at least tell me what you did to him. I've seen him kicking you out before but this time he seemed mad. Enough to yell even though it was late and people could've heard."

"You've seen him before?"

"Yeah. You missed school once. Primrose said you were sick."

"You spoke to my sister?"

"I'm allowed to, aren't I?" I retort, not liking his accusatory tone. "She said you were sick, that's all."

Peeta opens his mouth as if to say something, and then closes it again. I wait, figuring it's best to let him think.

"I- I don't know what happened," he murmurs, voice softer this time, but still guarded. "He's never been… _nice_ about it or anything. He's hit me before but…" His brows knit together, his eyes bright blue against his swollen skin. "There's always liquor. Always. But this time he gave me something. I don't know. He said it was legal in Two and Six…" He shakes his head, eyes dropping down to his lap. "I don't remember- I don't remember anything else. I don't…"

"Peeta," I say, when it seems like he's getting upset.

"I don't remember what happened. He hit me over the head and when I woke up… I knew I couldn't say no to him. It was like I wasn't even in my own body anymore. It was like he was taking my brain and switching it all around." Peeta stops, his shoulders hunching, his breathing becoming a little shaky. "I woke up and I was so confused and I told him, I tried to tell him, but – I couldn't speak properly. I- I hit him, I think. Scratched him across the face."

"And he got mad?" I whisper. Peeta is staring off into space, lost in his head, but he nods.

"He gets off on all pain but his own. He kicked me out and then…"

"And then I found you," I finish for him. He nods again. I apply some of the balm to his face. He remains still as I do so, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. "If he does this to you… if this is what you get because of it… why do you keep going back to him?" I ask. Peeta's eyes narrow as he looks at me. His expression hardens.

"Girls aren't the only ones who do it. Besides… I had to," he says defensively, and I sit back slightly.

"I get- I get that. But you kept going back. That's what I don't get." I look down at my hands, feeling ashamed to seem so unaware of what those in the Seam have to do to survive, hating that it makes me look so stupid.

"We had no food. I needed money," Peeta says, and he refuses to elaborate, or to explain the reason for him returning month after month to that awful place and that awful man. I sense that he's already uncomfortable at how much he's told me, and decide not to push it any further.

"I'll get you some water, and then let you rest," I tell him, standing and quickly leaving the room, securing the door behind me. I do as I promised, returning with a glass of water and leaving it close enough for him to reach, before escaping into the kitchen.

"Is he okay?" Rye asks, tapping his pen against the ledger. I feel sick at what Peeta has told me. It may not be much, and it may not be everything, but it's enough to make me angry and upset and disgusted at the same time.

I cover my face with my hands and just _breathe_ for a moment, trying to put my spinning head into some kind of order.

"You were right–" I say to my brother, and he frowns, confused.

"About what?"

"About Peeta. You said it was like he was drunk. He was, but Harris drugged him too. That's why he was so out of it, why he slurred his speech."

Rye just stares, mouth open as he processes what I've said.

"That bastard–"

"I know," I mutter. "And the worst part is that he'll get away with it."

Rye stares at the ledger in front of him. "I can't look at this damn thing any longer," he says, closing it and pushing it away. He sighs. "Christ."

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this," I tell him, and he shakes his head. He stands and hugs me. It's the first time he's done so – in a kind, meaningful way and not just to irritate me – in years.

"You can't help wanting to help people," he says. "Don't beat yourself up over this."

…

By the evening, Peeta has already snapped at both of us to leave him alone to use the bathroom in peace, and Rye has already had to leave the house to get some fresh air. With him gone, Peeta does seem a little more relaxed, but it also means that if he injures himself, I'll be the only one around to help him.

I knock tentatively on the bathroom door. "Peeta, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he responds gruffly, and I jump back when the door is flung open, revealing Peeta, clad in an ill-fitting t-shirt and a pair of pants, courtesy of Rye. I help him across to the bed and ease him down, and give him something for his pain before taking his clothes out to be washed. They're old items, it's clear, worn in places and stitched in others. Even beside some of our oldest things, they look ancient.

Once they're washed and left out to dry, I go back downstairs and start to make dinner. Rye didn't say when he would be back, but he's guided by his stomach more than anything else, so I know he'll be back long before curfew. Peeta calls me from his bed as I start chopping vegetables at the counter.

"I'll pay you back for all this," he tells me, and I shake my head.

"No, Peeta, it's–"

"I'll pay you back," he repeats, and I sigh. He'd be paying us for the rest of his life if he wanted to pay for everything we've used on him or given him, let alone the stay in the apothecary. I don't want to tell him how much the Capitol has us charge our customers – I fear he'd puncture a lung if I did.

"Don't go to Harris," I say. "That'll be payment enough."

He eyes me like I've grown a second head. "You can't be serious," he mutters under his breath. "You don't – you have no idea, do you?"

"I guess not," I say with wide eyes, leaving his door open and returning to making dinner.

"It doesn't work like that, _Katniss_ ," he hisses my name like it's a curse word. "I'm going to pay you back and that's final. I don't like owing people debts."

"This isn't a debt, Peeta," I say, turning to look at him. "You don't need to pay us anything because there's no debt, no owing, okay?"

He looks confused, and then angry. "You're crazy," he says. "Do townies not have debts?" he asks. "Is that a foreign concept for you?"

I ignore the _townie_ jibe, glaring at him over my shoulder. I'm not about to let him pretend that our social standings are important here. "Look, I helped you because I wanted to. It's what I've been taught to do and I wasn't about to leave you in the street."

His mouth drops open. "So all this is just to soothe your own ego?" he asks. "I didn't know you had such a guilty conscience!"

I slam the knife down and walk towards him. "I've been indebted to you since we were eight years old. You saved my life, Peeta. Me not telling people about Harris, me not just _leaving_ you out in the street – that's repaying you, that's thanking you in the only way I know how." I pause, breathing hard. "People don't always help each other out and expect something in return."

His expression says it all. I shake my head. "You don't remember, do you?"

"No," he says. "I do. I just didn't think you did… I never thought that had anything to do with this."

I feel my shoulders slump. "Well, it does. All these years, and I never thanked you for what you. I'm sorry for that."

He's speechless. I straighten my back and take a breath. "Now, shut up and stop moving. You're only making things worse for yourself."

I pull his door ajar, then, and return to the counter. I finish chopping the vegetables and some of the meat from the butcher, and add it all to the pot bubbling on the stove. Rye makes an appearance and eyes Peeta's door.

"He pissed you off too?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply, loud enough for Peeta to hear. "I need a break. Look after the pot."

And with that, I hurry upstairs, needing to put distance between everyone else in this house and gather my thoughts. I thought it was obvious– Peeta knew I hadn't thanked him for what he did, for saving my life, and I figured he'd understand that I was trying to pay him back. Of course, I would've helped him regardless, though our brief but shared history definitely added to my motivation.

I sit on my bed and close my eyes, listening to people outside in the street heading home for the day, to a distant bird chirping, and let myself have a moment alone, a moment of peace.

My fingers graze my outer thigh, and I feel the scarred flesh there, even through the material of my dress. I pull the skirts up to my hip, revealing the pink and white scar tissue spiralling from just below my hipbone to mid-thigh. You don't have to be a genius to figure out that they're bite and tear marks from a wild animal.

I was eight, and had been granted permission from my parents to visit a friend just a little way across town. I walked the main routes, and was completely safe, waving to the locals I was brave enough to say hello to. My father told me to _come straight home_ before sundown and I'd left with plenty of time to spare, but I'd remembered some flowers that grew closer to the fence and knew my mother would love a bunch to sit by the window in a pretty vase.

So, I left the path I was meant to follow, and wondered into the grassy, meadow-like areas just before the fence that borders Twelve. I'd been so absorbed by the flowers that I hadn't seen the sun setting, the shadows leaping over the district, and had only realised how far I'd wondered off, even beyond the cut to the Seam, when a piercing scream had ricocheted through the air.

A wild dog had broken into the district- it wasn't too uncommon an occurrence, but anything from outside the fence was wild and unknown and therefore terrifying, especially to those in town, and the first person to have spotted it and to have screamed was the elder daughter of the tailor. It would take just a few minutes for a Peacekeeper to be notified, but by that time, I was already running through the copses of trees and the long grass at the edge of the district, terrified.

I'd ended up coming face to face with the wild dog. It was like a beast from a nightmare; huge, shaggy-furred, with sharp white teeth shining with saliva. It lunged before I could move, clamping down my leg. I'd been too scared to scream, too _townie_ to know what to do in that situation, and was saved only by a flash of blond hair barrelling towards me. Peeta.

He'd been smaller than me but was a hundred times braver, brandishing a knife as he sliced at the dog's side to make it let go and quietly telling me to get behind him. He'd managed to get me to climb a tree – my flowers lay forgotten in a heap – and had scrambled up next to me, where we were just out of the animal's reach.

What then felt like hours must have only been thirty minutes, but I'd been bit, and didn't have time to spare. Peeta had used the rope he used to keep his pants over his narrow hips to tie around my leg, and had held me close as the dog circled underneath. The district was chaotic as the Peacekeepers tried to track down the dog, but Peeta kept me calm, made me feel safe.

A keeper shot the animal from across the meadow, and Peeta had slipped away immediately, disappearing back to the Seam. I'd never understood why he didn't stay, but the pain and the shock that followed as I was hurried back to my parents and applauded for using _what she'd learned from her mother and father_ to try and quell the bleeding meant I forgot all about him. I never did say a word about my saviour.

Now, all that remains of that day, long lost in the memories of those around me, is the scar on my leg and my knowledge of the boy who saved me.

I'm glad he remembers, but sorrowful that he never got the thanks he deserved. Somehow, everything of the past twenty-four hours seems to parallel that day. Peeta and I have been thrown together again, if only to save each other.

…

The following day, Peeta is insistent that he go home, and Rye agrees, knowing that our parents won't be happy to find a Seam boy in the building, no less one who isn't paying.

Against his wishes, we put him in a wheelchair to take him back to his family. It's an old, rickety thing that isn't used that often, but it'll have to do. Peeta can't walk all that way, not in the state he's in.

Still, he complains, muttering as I wrap him in a blanket to ward off the cold.

"Look," my brothers says, unamused. "Kit and I can't carry you on a stretcher– you're too heavy. So unless you want me to carry you in my arms like you're my bride, I suggest you make peace with the chair."

Peeta says nothing more on the matter.

We wait until nightfall to wheel him home, coming close to curfew but knowing we'll get away with it if we explain that we have a patient. The Seam is much quieter than town, and much darker, given the lack of streetlights. The roads are uneven, too, and I wince every time Peeta is jostled, knowing it must hurt him. He doesn't complain, though. I think he's figured that complaining is not going to do anything for his relationship with my brother.

I walk ahead to knock on the door of the Mellark house. It's a small, single-storey wooden building with a corrugated roof and a creaky decking. I feel nervous again. I've hardly ever been into the Seam, and have never knocked at one of the houses here before, let alone been inside one. Light is streaming in through one of the windows, and I can make out the sound of muffled voices. I figure I've got nothing more to lose, rapping my knuckles against the wooden pane.

I hear hasty footsteps and take a few of my own back, jumping when the door swings open. I look up and up to meet the eyes of the person who answers. I was expecting Primrose, or perhaps the allusive Mrs Mellark, not the tall, dark, and admittedly handsome face of Gale Hawthorne. He's a few years older than myself and, like most of the men in the Seam, is a miner. I'm surprised to see him here. I didn't think he was friends with the Peeta anymore, and that is the only reason why I can imagine him being here.

"Yes?" he asks gruffly, eyeing me.

"I'm Katniss. Everdeen. From the apothecary?" I say, and his silvery eyes widen.

"Oh."

"Peeta's here," I say, looking over my shoulder to an empty street. I peer further down the road and see Rye struggling to get Peeta over a bumpy bit of the road. I'd laugh at the sight if it wasn't for Gale pushing past me.

A boy a few years younger than Gale – his brother, Vick, I believe – follows, and I look back into the Mellark house to see three other Hawthornes, Mrs Mellark and Primrose looking out at me.

"We've brought Peeta back," I say to them, before hurrying down the steps.

Gale and Vick are assisting Rye. Peeta looks furious and embarrassed but also like he's in a fair amount of pain, so I'm glad when he's inside and sitting on the couch in his living room. Primrose jumps onto her brother and he hugs her despite being jostled, burying his face in her bony shoulder.

"What happened?" Gale asks, as Mrs Hawthorne touches Peeta's bruised face. "Prim got your message but it didn't say why you had him."

I glance at Peeta only to find that his eyes are on me. I figure he hasn't told Gale or anyone else what he's been doing.

"I found him in the street," I say. "He says he can't remember what happened… only that someone jumped him."

"I was walking back here and someone hit me over the head. I don't know who or why. Katniss and her brother helped me," Peeta says. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Gale's eyes flash. I don't understand the relationship between the two of them, between the two families, but know it's not my place to pry. It's up to Peeta now, to explain what he wants to explain. I've tangled myself in enough secrets already; I don't want to be involved in any more.

"Is he alright?" Mrs Hawthorne asks. I notice how Mrs Mellark stays quiet, sitting in a chair in the corner. She's thin, drawn, and sways slightly. I don't want to ask what's happened to her, not sure that I even want to know.

"He should be fine," Rye responds when I don't. His voice is loud in the cramped space, and I see how Gale and his brothers eye my own with distrust. "He has a small head injury and a fractured rib– the rib should be healed in about a month but he needs to rest for at least the next week. He'll be in pain so we've brought along some stuff to help but if he starts coughing up blood or feels pain in his stomach, call for us, and we'll come to you. Don't take him to the apothecary, it'll only make things worse."

Peeta's jaw remains locked and his gaze far away as Rye speaks, and I wrap my arms around myself. He must hate this, having to hide and keep so many secrets. He's doing everything he can to protect his family, to keep Primrose alive, but the cost to his own wellbeing is enormous, and they have no idea.

I wonder if he'll ever tell them, or if it'll be something he carries to his grave.

Rye and I leave soon after. Gale follows us out, obviously uncomfortable, but he shakes both of our hands and sincerely thanks us.

"Prim ran over to us when she got the message about him," he says, walking a little way away from the house with us. He shoves his hands in his pockets. He looks tired, and his bearded face is dusted with coal. It's a hard life, being a miner. "His mom won't look after him but I'll make sure he's good. My mother will visit him."

"Thank you, Gale," I say, and he nods, looking down the dark street ahead of us.

"You've been good to him," he says. "I don't know how we'll be able to repay you."

Rye opens his mouth to speak but I hurry to get my own words out. "It's okay. Ask Peeta. We talked about payment already. You don't have to worry."

I can tell Rye is dying to ask me what Peeta and I agreed, but I don't look at him. Gale looks marginally suspicious but eventually nods. "When you found him… was it real bad?"

"Yes," I reply. There's no other way about it. "Please make sure he rests."

"I'll try," Gale sighs. "But Peet's a free spirit. If he wants to do something, there ain't much I can do to stop him."

"We'd best be off," says Rye. "Curfew and all."

Gale looks at his wrist. A metal watch, once shiny, now dull and scratched, glints in the moonlight. I wonder where he got such an item, who bought it for him. "We'll be leavin' too," he says, stepping back a little, closer to the Mellark house. "Thanks again."

"See you around," Rye says, and we depart without another word. Rye waits until we're almost at the cut before speaking. I don't know if he's a little freaked out by the darkness and the relative obscurity of the Seam, but he walks quickly and quietly, seeming eager to get back onto familiar cobbled streets.

"What deal did you make with him?" he asks me as we cross through the Quarters, taking the shortest route through backstreets and alleyways.

I debate lying or giving him a filtered version of the truth, but eventually just tell him what happened. "Remember was I was kid, when I got trapped up that tree when that wild dog broke in?"

"Yeah," he says, looking at me. "You got bit."

"Yeah," I echo. "Peeta saved me that night."

"What?"

"I wondered off into the meadow and the dog cornered me. Peeta appeared, got the thing away, got me up a tree. He tied that rope around my leg and stayed the entire time. When they shot the dog he ran."

Rye stares at me, stunned. "And you never told anyone?"

"No," I say. "While you were out he said he'd pay for everything but I told him that we were even. That me caring for him was repayment for what he did." Rye continues staring. I grimace. "Is that stupid?"

Rye doesn't reply.

We reach the apothecary with mere minutes to spare before curfew. Rye stows the wheelchair away and together we clean up the back of the shop, the bathroom and the room Peeta stayed in. The sheets still smell of him; beyond the harsh soap used to clean them, I can smell pine needles and something else, something heady.

It's strange now, to have the place entirely to ourselves. It's quieter, somehow, even though Peeta barely spoke.

"You alright?" Rye asks a while later.

"Yeah."

"He'll be okay, Kit."

"I know."

"You have to let him make his own decisions."

I chew on my bottom lip. "I know," I whisper. Rye puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and I pick at a loose thread on my now-dry nightgown, stain-free but for a pale pink blotch by the hem.

…

I'm intensely relieved when I don't see Peeta on Monday. Rye left an apothecary's notice with him, meaning he'll have a valid excuse when the keepers come knocking, but I'd almost expected him to appear out of sheer stubbornness.

On Tuesday morning, Primrose approaches me in the schoolyard. Vick and Rory hang back, watching her approach me and my group of distinctly _townie_ friends. Delly is the first to notice the waif of a girl, and nudges me. I stand up from the wall as she walks closer.

"Hey Primrose," I greet her, and she smiles nervously at the girls behind me. "Ignore them," I tell her, and her grey-blue eyes focus on me. She smiles, and stretches out a hand to reveal a small cloth pouch.

"It's for the cookies," she says as I take it from her. I immediately know this isn't the truth. I gave her that first cookie months ago. This is from Peeta.

"You shouldn't have," I tell her. "Thank you very much, Primrose."

"You're welcome," she says, holding tightly onto the strap of her bag. I open the pouch. Inside are what can only be flowers from outside of the fence– nothing like this grows within the district. It's colweed, and is very expensive to purchase from the Capitol. It's a pungent plant that works miracles on wounds when applied as a paste and is good for clearing the lungs when burnt and inhaled.

I look at Primrose, who's watching me expectantly. I don't want to trouble her, so don't ask how Peeta got colweed, instead smiling at her and changing the subject.

"How's your brother?" I ask.

"He's sleeping a lot," she replies. "He says his side hurts but that you made it better."

"As long as he keeps resting, he'll be up and about in no time," I reply. "Will you remind him to rest for me?"

She agrees, nodding, taking her task very seriously. Rory calls her name then, and she sighs. "I've gotta go."

"Okay. See you around, Primrose," I say, and she runs back to the Hawthorne brothers, waving at me. I wave back.

"What was that about?" Delly asks as I put the pouch of colweed into my school bag.

"I helped her out over the weekend. She gave me that as thanks."

Delly raises an eyebrow. "You helped _her_? Not her brother?"

"It doesn't matter, does it?"

Delly shrugs. "I guess not," she says, but I know that she thinks it does.

On Wednesday, I have no chores to do at home, so I'm free to dawdle in town with Delly after school. We visit the sweet shop and I purchase a small paper bag of sour chews while Delly chooses some sickly-sweet lemon drops, and then we loop around through town window shopping and gossiping.

She asks me again about Peeta, so I tell her that he fell and that I treated him and that he must have sent his sister over in thanks. I ask her to say no more about Peeta or Primrose Mellark, and thankfully she does as I ask, even though I know she's curious. I hug her to me, glad to have her on my side, and we head for the square, where we'll go our separate ways back to our homes.

The sun is getting low and people are beginning to close up shop for the day as we walk along. I spot the familiar sight of a Peacekeeper in the distance, unmistakable in their bright white uniform, and think nothing of it. I say goodbye to Delly and head across the square, and it's then than I realise who this particular keeper is.

Harris.

I feel my stomach bottom out at the sight of him. Seeing him up close and in the flesh, and not under the cover of night almost seems strange, as if he's only meant to inhabit the peripheral, shadowy places of my life, and not to be standing around with his hand on his gun, eyeing the people passing him by like they're cattle in an auction yard.

I try to duck my head as I pass him, try to be inconspicuous, but I can't help it. I look up.

Sure enough, streaking across his face are four bright red scratch marks. Not particularly deep, but enough to sting. Peeta was right.

Harris notices me staring and narrows his eyes, reminding me of that time long ago when I was a kid, and earlier, when he came in with the posters. His lip curls. "What you lookin' at girl?" he snarls, and I recoil, scurrying away.

My heart pounds. I feel his eyes on me until I duck away out of the square, down an alleyway.

He must know. He must. He must realise who I am, how close to him I live, what my parents do. Surely he'd suspect that I knew something, or perhaps that'd I'd seen something I shouldn't, something he'd want to keep hidden.

I slam the door shut as soon as I get home. Mother asks _whatever is the matter?_ so I make up a lame excuse about the cold chasing me all the way home, and spend the rest of the night trying to erase the image of Harris' scratched-up face from my mind.

…

On Thursday, I see Harris and Commander Cray talking together. Harris is a lone wolf, but Cray seems to be the one person he'll make an exception for. I guess he feels some kind of solidarity with the older man.

I don't care to know the subject of their conversation, but I see Cray point at Harris' face, likely questioning as to how he got such an injury. Harris shrugs, and Cray loses interest, walking away, up the hill, leaving Harris alone, a looming shadow caught between the dying sunlight at the encroaching night.

…

On Friday, I decide to pay Peeta a visit. Our parents always close up early on Fridays to visit Fenton and his family, so I lie and say I have a stomach ache to get out of it. Rye covers for me when I tell him my plan. I gave him the colweed the same day Primrose gave it to me though he's yet to decide whether to just put it with the rest of our supplies and act none the wiser, or if he should keep hold of it until our parents pick up on the fact that supplies were used on a customer who did not pay.

Father leaves me with a hot herbal tea to calm my stomach and I wait for twenty minutes before dressing in a heavy coat and packing a small bag of basic medical supplies and leaving the house. I first stop at the bakery. It's cosy inside and fortunately there isn't a line, so I'm able to buy a loaf of bread and a packet of cookies and be out of there within a few minutes.

I pull my hood up against the frigid air and hurry towards the Seam. Whether or not Peeta will be happy with me waltzing up to his front door in broad daylight is not my concern. Gale promised to come and get Rye or me if Peeta looked to be worsening, though I also know how stubborn Peeta is, how he'll hate to have me fussing around him again, and how proud folk from the Seam are. He needs to be checked, though, and I know that if I present his sister with baked goods, he won't be able to deny me.

I arrive and climb up the front steps. It's quiet out. A small pot of yellow primroses sits beside the door, cheering up the place, but in this weather, there's little that can be done to make the Seam comfortable or inviting.

I knock twice, step back, and wait. After a minute, I hear footsteps. Peeta is the one to open the door.

"What are you doing here?" he asks but I speak over him.

"Why are you walking around?"

He blinks. "Someone had to get the door." He's leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch, and shuffles back to let me in. "You're letting out the warm," he says, though when I step over the threshold, I honestly can't tell that there's much difference.

"Why are you here?" he asks me, moving into the kitchen and sitting down with a grimace, his hand cupping his side through what looks like three layers of clothing.

"To check up on you," I say, and he groans.

"You don't need–"

"Yes I do. It's policy to check up on our patients, even when they're grumpy."

"I didn't think I had achieved the esteemed classification of _patient_."

I narrow my eyes. "Is Primrose here? Or your mother?"

"They're at Hazelle's," he replies, watching me as I place my bag on the table. "You have good timing."

"You wouldn't have let me in otherwise?" I ask.

"No, but I can't see you giving me much choice," he says, smiling sweetly at me. I purse my lips.

"I see your mood hasn't improved," I say, sliding him the bakery goods. He eyes the Capitol seal printed on the outside of the paper bag. "It's for Primrose," I tell him when it looks like he's going to protest, and he opens the bag, eyes widening at what's inside.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asks after a minute of silence.

"I'll do it," I say. "You shouldn't be walking around so much. I hope you're resting."

"There's only so much time I can spend in bed or on the couch," he says, his eyes following me as I find a clean glass and fill it with water. The tap leaks and the water is icy cold, which is refreshing but also makes me wonder if they ever get proper hot water here.

I sit back down and sip my drink. Peeta's looking uncomfortable again.

"How are you?" I ask him.

"Fine."

He's deflecting, so I give him a look which prompts him to continue.

"I can't sleep for shit with my side hurting so much and I can't breathe either, but thankfully my pretty face seems to be mostly intact."

"And your head?"

"Fine."

"You've been taking what we gave you for the pain?"

"Yup."

I finish my water. "Let me have a look, then," I say, standing. He holds out his crutch as if I'm going to attack him and he needs some form of defence. "Peeta, come on. I need to make sure you're alright."

He begrudgingly relents, allowing me to get closer. Even sat down he's tall enough – or perhaps I'm just short – that I need to be standing to see his head properly. It's healing well, and he shouldn't lose any hair. I shift to his face, to the bruises. They're turning a greenish colour now, staining his pale skin. His lip is still swollen, but doesn't look like it's going to be a problem.

"I wondered if you'd broken your nose," I murmur. "But I think it just happens to look that way."

He actually laughs, then, and I can't help but smile at the sound. When he's not delirious from alcohol or drugs or pain, he's actually not that difficult to get along with.

"Do you always save your insults for when you're checking on your patients?" he asks, and I shrug.

"Only for the special ones."

I run my thumb over the bruise gracing the join between his jaw and his neck, and he winces slightly. I apologise, and then step back.

"How's your leg?" I ask him.

"My leg?"

"You had bruises on your legs. And a scrape. Didn't look serious so we didn't do anything."

"They're nothing I can't handle," he replies softly.

"Do you- do you mind if I see your side?" I ask hesitantly, and I'm marginally surprised when he doesn't protest, simply lifting his layers of clothing to reveal a large, green-and-purple bruise dominating his left side. I reach out and he hisses when my fingertips make contact with the mark. "Is it really that painful?" I ask him, concerned.

"No– I mean, a little, but you've got cold hands."

"Sorry," I apologise, but he shakes his head.

"'S fine. Feels good, actually."

I ignore the way my body tingles at his words. It's not the time nor the place nor his intention, _but still_.

The sound of loud footsteps out on the porch of Peeta's home breaks the silence that's fallen over the two of us, and I jerk back when Gale walks in like he owns the place. He immediately stops at the sight of us and backs away, gruffly apologising and saying that he'll get the others to wait outside, not giving us any time to explain.

I look at Peeta. He looks at me. He yanks his shirt down to cover his side.

"It looks better," I tell him. "You still need to rest, though. The more you move, the more painful it's going to be, and the longer it'll take to heal."

He nods. "Okay."

"I know it sucks, but it's all you can do, really."

He nods again. I nod too.

"I'll see you around," I tell him, packing up my things. He starts to get up, but I tell him to stay put, and bid him farewell before ducking out of the house. Gale waits outside with Mrs Mellark, Primrose, and Primrose's goat, who I remember is called Lady.

"Come on, get in out of the cold," Gale says to the two – _three_? – Mellarks, and Primrose says a cheery hello to me as we pass each other. Mrs Mellark is silent. She reminds me of a ghost as she floats past, barely registering that I'm there.

Once Gale and I are alone, he turns to me. "Sorry… for barging in."

"It's okay," I say. "You didn't have to wait outside."

Gale gives me a funny look but doesn't say whatever's on his mind. Instead, he asks if I was seeing how Peeta was doing.

"Yeah," I reply. "He seems better than he was. He needs to be resting, though. Even if it makes him crazy."

"I'll keep reminding him," he says. "But Prim isn't a great cook and no one else is going to keep the house going."

I nod in understanding. Peeta's mother doesn't seem the type to leap up and cook a meal, no matter the condition her children are in.

"You got the colweed?" he asks, and I look at him in surprise. "We don't have that kind of thing just lying around, you know, and Peeta wasn't about to go out and get it."

"It was _you_?"

"I have my sources," he says quietly, clearly aware of prying ears, both human and electronic. "Peet wanted to pay you back even after I told him you said it was fine. He would've injured himself again if I hadn't done it for him."

"How'd you get it? It's like… _really_ expensive, even for us to buy."

"Things like that aren't too hard to find, so long as you know where to look," Gale says, raising his eyebrows. He changes the subject then, obviously knowing that this isn't the type of conversation you have out in the open, but I don't like the new topic one bit. "I don't mean to… to make you uncomfortable or nothing, _but_ , I can't help but wonder what's goin' on with you and him."

I blink and stutter out an unconvincing _nothing!_ , because really, there isn't, and really, I don't see how there could be, but I can't help but sense that there is _something_ going on between us. Gale picks on my internal dialogue immediately.

"Whether there is or not, I just wanna say, don't mess around with him. He's been through a lot but he still has a heart, beneath his tough-guy persona."

"I wouldn't–"

He interrupts me, and the authority in his tone, and the edge of warning to his words, makes me shut up. "I ain't saying you will. But. We heed our cautionary tales, we treat them with respect around here. And Peeta's folks… they're an important one." He kicks at the frozen ground. "What I'm tryin' to say is that from my perspective at least, it looks like history could be repeating itself. No one ever learns and it's guaranteed to have the same outcome." He pauses, looking at me. His breath steams into the air. "And I don't want that for you, much less him."

"Okay," I mumble.

"Cool," says Gale.

We stand in silence for a second, both of us uncomfortable, Gale with exposing his rarely-seen soft side, and me with being the recipient of it.

"I bought cookies," I tell him. "From the bakery. They're for Primrose but she's bound to save you some."

Gale shakes his head, laughing. "You know, while he was hopped up on that syrup that first night, he kept talking about angels and I thought he was outta his godamn mind. But I guess he knew exactly what he was sayin'."

He turns his back on me, jogging up the steps of the Mellark house. "See you around, kid."

And then he's gone, and I'm left to get home before my parents figure out I'm not actually sick.

…

Prim thanks me for the cookies on Monday, and I can't resist giving her the one packed in my lunch. Sure, they're not the healthiest, but she never says no and I don't mind it at all.

But clearly, Peeta does. He turns up at school on Tuesday, which I consider to be something short of a miracle– or a curse. He sends Prim over to me at lunch with a request for me to wait behind after school so we can talk. I do as he asks, waiting by the scraggly old oak at the back of the building.

He doesn't bothering greeting me when he approaches, hobbling on a crutch, his face twisted in what I figure is both pain and anger.

"Stop giving my sister cookies," he immediately snaps, and I feel annoyance swell within me.

"Stop using her as a carrier pigeon," I retort, and his nostrils flare. "If you have something to say to me, or to give to me, you can do it yourself."

He's breathing heavily and we stare each other down for a moment before I break.

"You're tired and in pain and it's making you grouchy," I tell him. "I'm not going to talk to you if you're going to have mood swings all the time."

I turn, walking away, and it only takes a few steps for him to call my name. I walk back to him. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he says, still sounding a little resentful but also understanding that he had no right to lash out at me out of the blue. "I didn't mean… I don't mean what I say. Not all of the time."

I fold my arms over my chest, half to show that I'm still annoyed and half to preserve body heat. I don't know how he manages it in his thin jacket.

He looks over his shoulder when someone shouts somewhere down the street, and I spot a red mark by his ear, almost hidden by his hat and hair. I reach out and lift the edge of the hat. It's new.

"Peeta," I say, feeling sick all over again. "You didn't."

"What?" he asks, looking back at me, hunching his shoulders against the bitter wind.

I keep my voice low and restrained even though my heart is pounding. _He couldn't have. Not now. It's too soon._ "You didn't go to Harris again, did you?"

His eyes widen. "No, no. _No_."

"Then how'd you get that mark?"

"My mom," he says, like he's commenting on the colour of the sky. I'm horrified, unable to put two and two together. Mrs Mellark, of what I've seen, is a frail shell, a shadow of a woman, not someone who beats her children.

At my lack of response, Peeta furrows his brow. "You think she's just some frail widow?"

I bite my lip, unable to get my head around how he's so nonchalant about this.

"She's your mother!"

"Your mom never hits you? Your old man?"

I gape. "Maybe lightly when I was a kid, but no!"

He sniffs. "Guess I got your share too, then."

"Peeta, no," I say. "That's not right."

"My pa is dead, Katniss. One down, two to go. He ain't hitting no one no more. And I never let either of them lay a hand on Prim." He shrugs. "It's not a big deal."

I want to shake him, to yell that it absolutely _is_ a big deal. I know that it isn't uncommon in Twelve, but I didn't think it happened to Peeta and Primrose. I didn't think Mr and Mrs Mellark were ever like that. But Peeta's expression hardens at my silence, and I don't push the matter.

…

A few weeks pass, and I don't see Peeta at number thirty-eight, only at school, where he doesn't look at me, let alone speak to me. When she spots me, Primrose often waves, and I wave back, but her brother is like he was before that night at Harris' place. Quiet, cold, and acting as if I don't exist.

I didn't expect anything from him, but I'd figured that some kind of connection had been established between the two of us, enough to warrant a smile my way once in a while. Still, it makes me happy to see that he's getting better. His rib injury must still be causing him discomfort, but he walks with a less pronounced scowl than before, and his bruises are fading to yellow.

Harris' face heals in no time, but it doesn't make the truth of what he did to Peeta any less prominent in my mind. I have nightmares about finding Peeta's dead body on my doorstep, and repeatedly wake up in the middle of the night, convinced I've heard a door slamming or angry voices in the street.

With winter now embracing the district and with Peeta unable to promise that he won't be forced to go back to Harris, there's reason for me to worry. When the snow blocks the tracks, the supply trains from the Capitol won't come, and people will quickly begin to starve. And with Peeta injured, I know it'll be harder for him to get by, not to mention more treacherous on icy paths and roads.

A month before New Year, I accompany Rye to the station. So far the snow has been less intense than it usually is for this time of year, so the trains are still able to get through, and people are taking advantage of our extended good fortune to prepare for when it abruptly ends. The station is crowded and noisy, filled with people from all corners of the district, collecting their assigned rations and bargaining for more.

Since the apothecary is contractually bound to the Capitol, as with most of the other Merchant businesses in Twelve, we don't have to wait in line to pick up both our personal rations and the supplies needed to run our business. It's not much warmer inside the warehouse, and we stamp our feet and blow on our hands to try and keep our blood flowing. The shelter is noticeable when we leave, though, and I pull at the collar of my coat to try and hide from the late afternoon wind.

Our parents hired a cart and pony to bring the supplies back from the station; all Rye and I need to do is take it from point A to point B. It proves difficult to get the cart through the crowds clogging the station entrance, but eventually we're through and able to hurry back home.

We divert left down a slightly quieter backstreet, and we're just about to turn the corner when I hear a voice calling my name. I look over my shoulder to see Peeta. I look to my brother and he shoos me away.

"Go. I'll say you're talking to a friend if mother or father ask."

"Thanks, Rye," I say, smiling gratefully. "I won't be long."

He leads the pony and cart on and I make my way over to Peeta. He's wearing a knitted hat today, but is still clad in that thin jacket.

"Hey," I greet him. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," he brusquely replies, looking up and down the street.

"I'm only asking," I reply with a frown, and he raises a hand to run it through his hair before remembering the hat and shoving his hand back into his pocket.

"You're right, sorry," he says. "It's been a long day."

"You didn't come to me to tell me about your day. What is it?" I ask. I'm slightly annoyed that he's being so short with me, especially after weeks of him acting like we've never even spoken before.

"I know he spoke to you," Peeta says, his eyes as cold as the ice underfoot. "Gale. When you came to check on me."

Gale's words from that day have also played a starring role in my thoughts over this past month. His comments about Peeta putting on a persona to protect himself weren't a surprise to me; I've seen how caring he can be via Primrose and from long before that with the wild dog. I didn't doubt that he had a heart.

But Gale also warned me against getting involved with Peeta, against hurting him, even though that's the last thing on my mind. I've been told by multiple different people now – Delly, Rye, Gale, and by some extent, Peeta himself – that getting involved with a Seam boy is a bad idea, though I can't say that I've ever really considered it. Peeta and I – _together_? As in _romantically involved_? The very notion goes against everything I've ever expected; growing up I always figured I'd end up marrying a fellow Merchant and had no reason to think anything different.

Peeta doesn't seem interested in me in that way but given the events of the past few months, I would be lying if I didn't find him alluring. Looking back, even when I was wiping blood off his face I felt something pulling me towards him, something I couldn't put a name to but that was there anyway. It's a feeling I've never experienced before, but now, as I acknowledge it, I can also see the problems it could cause.

Gale was right; Mr and Mrs Mellark are indeed a cautionary tale that I should be wary of, though I suppose I can understand why they married, why they didn't care about the repercussions of their love. And things are better now. Mixed couples aren't seen as shocking anymore.

I look at Peeta stood in front of me, his eyes burning into me, his jaw set in a scowl I've grown familiar with, his nose red from the cold, and consciously recognise, for the first time, that I really am attracted to him. Delly warned me about crushes but she too thinks Peeta is cute– she'd be hysterical if she was privy to my current train of thought. And so what if I've always had a soft spot for him? That doesn't mean we'd be doomed to fail.

None of this matters, of course, in the real world. Peeta isn't interested and I'm sure he'd view a relationship with me as nothing more than a mirror image of his parents. A tragedy in the making. He'd never allow it to work.

I ball my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms. I need to stop this. I need to focus on the now, not on what could be, if this were a different time and place.

"So?" I say to Peeta, aware that I've been silent for a few moments too long. "Why do you ask?"

"He won't tell me what he said."

"And…?"

His brow furrows in frustration. "What did he say to you?" he asks impatiently. "Tell me, Katniss."

"It's nothing to do with you."

"It's everything to do with me! It's to do with _you_ and that means… that means it's to do with – fuck, never mind," he trails off, obviously flustered. He makes to leave but I catch his arm, not wanting to leave this on a bad note.

"He warned me about you," I say quietly, and his expression shifts from hurt to angry to confused before becoming as still and impenetrable as an iced-over pond.

"He _warned_ you about me?"

"That getting involved with you was a bad idea." He looks offended, like he can't believe Gale would view him as a threat to a _townie_ like me. "He wasn't saying that you're a bad person, or that you're dangerous or anything like that. He just said that I should see the example of your parents and know that couples from either side of the district never work out. He said he didn't want to see that happen again, especially not to you."

Peeta blinks slowly, focused somewhere in the distance. I take it as a sign to carry on talking.

"He didn't mean to upset you. That absolutely wasn't his intention. He's just looking out for you, Peeta, and I get it. He doesn't want you to get hurt." Flakes of snow begin to fall between us, landing on the curls of blond hair peeking out from his hat. "I don't want you to get hurt, either. And I definitely wouldn't want to go through what your parents did."

He exhales through is nose, apparently finding the concept amusing. "Well, you're lucky that it'll never happen, then, aren't you?" he mutters, and I feel his words like a slap to the face.

"What do you mean by that?" I ask, unable to keep the indignation from my tone.

"I mean that _this_ –" he motions violently between the two us. "Is never going to happen."

I feel my cheeks redden. It's the time he's referenced that _something_ between us. "Peeta–"

"You can't always have it your way," he bites, and I feel my mouth drop open. He fixes me with a bitter stare. "What? You think I fuck everyone I owe something to?" he asks, and I stare at him, trying to understand how he's come to assume that I want _that_ from him.

"I– I don't want to sleep with you!" I hiss, before quieting, aware of the wind carrying our voices to prying ears.

Peeta looks at me with the same expression I've seen boys give girls when they know they're right: it screams _I told you so_ , all smug and smirking.

I glare at him. "I don't expect anything from you. Is that seriously how you view me?"

"You're a Merchant," he says. "That's how you all view people from the Seam."

"You're sick in the head," I snap. "And you had the audacity to tell me that _I'm_ the one with an ego?"

"I don't have time for this," he says under his breath, stepping backwards, the way he came. "See you around."

But I'm furious. Furious that he thinks this way, furious that our district allows such thoughts to dominate people's minds, furious that he apparently thinks so little of me. I grab his elbow and refuse to let go, even when he gives me what I'm sure is a glare that would make most people turn tail and flee.

"You do not get to pull the Seam card on me," I say, and he raises his eyebrows. "I think I've proved to you that I don't care where you come from – I never have."

"It's in your blood, Katniss," he says, and I hate that he speaks like I'm a child. "You can't help it."

"That's a shitty thing to say and you know it," I retort. "You're Seam _and_ Merchant, Peeta, whether you like it or not, so don't act like you're so superior to everyone else."

He seems stunned for a moment, and I admit that I am too. I've never spoken to anyone like that, never cursing and calling people out so viciously. But the words have been said, and I can't take them back. It's cathartic, actually, to let him know what I'm thinking. I won't let him go until I make him realise that he deserves good things, that good things and good people willcome to him if he lets them.

I speak before he does, determined to finish this, whatever it is that it's mutating into.

But my words are softer this time, more defeated. My hurt at his reaction to the idea of us being together in any way seeps through before I can stop it.

"Why– why do you say we could never be together?" I ask breathlessly, and his nose wrinkles.

"You know why already. You said so yourself: my parents are an example of something you would never want. That should be reason enough."

"It isn't," I say. "Not now, not for me. And I can't believe it's enough for you."

He shakes his head, looking tired all of a sudden. "You don't think I wondered if it could work out? If two people from different parts of the districts could be happy? I _wished_ it were true. I _wanted_ things to be better but I know that people aren't so easily swayed. People are stubborn, Katniss, and nothing can change that."

I understand what he's saying, I do, but I don't want to believe it. I don't want to believe that this is it. That there's nothing more to be done or said.

"I can't believe you're so fearful of what _townies_ think," I tell him, and his eyes flash.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I know first-hand what it's like to be outside what people find acceptable. I don't want to add to the problem. I don't want to be part of it anymore."

"People aren't as stubborn as you think, Peeta. You're so focused on the bad things people do that you completely miss the good and you haven't got the guts to prove that this time you'd be able to do things differently. That you could break the mould."

He nods slowly, and after a long a moment, he says: "You're right. I haven't."

"But you wish you did," I murmur, and he doesn't reply.

I stare at him. I want things to be different… I know they can be better, that things don't always have to go wrong.

Before I can convince myself that it's a bad idea, I reach out and cup his jaw, turning his face so he's looking at me and stretching up onto my toes to press my lips to his.

It's my first kiss and I don't know what I'm doing, but his lips are soft despite the cold weather and he doesn't push me away so I let myself lean into him and enjoy it. When I pull away, rocking onto my heels, his eyes snap open. His pupils are dark and wide, engulfing the blue of his irises, and I feel my heart thundering in my chest as he stares at me.

"Katniss," he whispers. "No."

I blink. "No?"

"You don't – you don't know what you're doing."

"Yes I do. I'm kissing you."

The expression on his face almost looks like pity.

I lean up again, slower this time, giving him the opportunity to deny me, to step away, and when he doesn't, I kiss him again, sliding one hand over to the nape of his neck. I open my mouth to deepen the kiss, pleased when he responds. I almost slip on the icy cobbles underfoot but he keeps me upright by placing his free hand on my waist and pulling me closer to him.

He pulls away this time, bumping his nose against mine.

"If you- if you don't want this…" I say, my question obvious.

"I don't want you to get hurt."

"I won't," I say. "And neither will you. This isn't just history repeating itself if this time it goes right."

Peeta still looks troubled, but there's a hint of optimism, of hope, gleaming in his eye. I run my thumb over his cheekbone.

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into," he says, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

"I know," I reply. "But it's okay."

He nods, sighs. "Okay."

…

Our relationship changes from that point onwards. I can't name what it is for it has no fixed boundaries, nothing concrete about it. I figure that we're together, in the way that used to – and still does – make me blush, but Peeta is allusive when I bring the subject up.

"I don't know," he says, his voice low. "I don't know yet."

But I'm happy to be _it,_ whatever _it_ is.

We don't tell anyone. Peeta is still on edge about the whole thing, as I am I, though our reasons for concern are slightly different. His fear stems from his parents, from how they became pariahs and how that left him to exist in the place between the identities of the Seam folk and the Merchants. My fear is borne from years of seeing how strongly some people believe in keeping these identities separate, and not knowing how those I hold dear would react.

But still, I hope. I dream. And it is enough.

…

"Why do you want this?" Peeta asks me one evening. He's been doubting himself a lot, doubting us. "Why do you want me?" His brow tightens. "If this – I know townie girls go 'round with Seam boys for fun. So if this is a… a _thrill_ for you, if you're looking for a rush? I can't deal with that. It's not me being selfish or stupid. It's about looking out for Prim."

I cup his face in my hands. "The last thing I want is for you to get hurt," I promise him. "You or Prim… I don't want anything bad to happen." I look him in the eye, and wait until he holds my gaze. "I like you. That's why I want you, why I want _this_."

Whenever I say stuff like that, he gets all gruff and embarrassed, muttering under his breath about getting into things he shouldn't have, but as the weeks drag on, I find that he makes eye contact with me at school, and he doesn't glare. Once, when I catch his eye in the cafeteria, he actually smiles, before ducking his head and focusing on Prim.

The whole thing makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and Delly picks up on the change straight away, hauling me aside to find out what it is. I shrug, telling her that I'm just in a good mood. She isn't the type to gossip and I know I can trust her not to tell the first person she saw if I _did_ tell her the truth, but I'm not about to break Peeta's trust like that.

We meet when we can, often in backstreets and shadowy corners after the sun has set but before curfew. We're cold, standing around in the wind and the snow while everyone else is inside and warm, but neither of us mind it.

"Penny for your thoughts?" I ask him one evening, after he falls silent and still for the third time in twenty minutes. He blinks at me. "You're distracted," I whisper, and he frowns.

"Prim's sick."

"Oh."

He twists his hands together. I lay my gloved ones over his bare fingers, warming them.

"I can get her something, if you'd like."

"I can't pay you."

"It's a gift."

"Katniss," he murmurs, shaking his head. I lean in close, tipping his chin back so I can kiss him properly. It's taking time to convince him that I do stuff for him because I want to, and that I don't want anything but his presence in return.

"It's a gift," I reiterate, and he sighs his acquiesce.

…

I hear along the grapevine that Peeta got into a fight and won. He's surprised by my initial anger and subsequent concern, but acts like his busted up face and bruised knuckles are nothing when he presents me with the ribbon he bought for me with the money he earned from the fight.

"Prim picked it out," he says, shy in this display of his affection, and I smile at him.

"You're an idiot," I say against his lips.

He's soft sometimes, like now. I'm learning his multitudes, beyond what I knew a year ago, beyond the hooded figure I saw stood on Harris' doorstep.

…

The winter festival approaches and Delly asks me if I'm going with anyone.

"No," I say. "Why?"

She hesitates but then blurts the words out. "I got asked to go with someone but I'll say no if you're going to be alone."

"Dels, come on. I don't care about that," I say, nudging her with my elbow. We're sat in her bedroom, watching the snow falling past her window, and talk of the festival has dominated our afternoon. "Who asked you?" I ask her.

"Mitch Jones," she says, a shy satisfaction lacing her tone. I gape at her.

"No way! Really?" She's fancied Mitch for some time now. He's a year older than us and works at the station and I know they'd make a good pair.

Delly blushes. "Yeah. He came to the shop a few days ago to pick up his little brother's shoes and asked me."

"And you didn't say yes right away?"

"No."

"Because of me?"

"I didn't want you to be upset!"

"I would never," I say, squeezing her tight. "I'm a big girl. I can handle not having someone to go with."

"I'll still dance with you," she says, and I laugh.

"I assumed you'd still make time for me," I say, and she rolls her eyes. I hit her over the head with one of her pillows. "Now, tell me what you're planning to wear."

Later that week, I bring up the festival to Peeta.

"Prim's excited," he shrugs. "She loves that kind of thing."

I lean against his shoulder. "You don't?"

"It's not my scene."

"What's your scene, then?" I ask him. "Late night fist-fights? Drunken brawls?"

He pulls back to look at me, a smile playing at his lips. "Is that all you think I do?"

"Your reputation precedes you," I say, grinning.

We sit in silence for a few moments, and then he speaks again, albeit hesitantly. "You weren't… you weren't hinting that I ask you to the festival, were you?"

"No," I say, and when he looks at me with suspicion, I laugh and say: "No, I wasn't! I just wondered if I'd see you there."

"I'll be with Prim."

"So, yes, I _will_ see you there," I say, and he shrugs. I hug his arm and kiss his cheek. "Make sure to wear something nice."

And sure enough, he does. I'm stood by the bonfire when Prim runs up to me to say hello. She and I have matching ribbons, though hers doesn't match the dress she's wearing. Peeta follows his sister like a shadow, and I smile at him.

"Hey," I say, and he replies with the same, looking around. "You look nice," I tell him. His shoes have been shined, and he has a bowtie around his neck, poking out from beneath his coat.

"Thanks," he mumbles, and Prim tugs on his arm. He blinks, eyes widening, and looks up at me again. "I – I mean, you look beautiful, Katniss."

I wink at Prim but thank Peeta anyway. "Can I get you two some spiced tea?" Peeta opens his mouth to say no but Prim eagerly takes up my offer, and I head to my parent's stall. It's manned by Rye now – I helped out earlier – and he looks over my shoulder when I ask him for three cups of tea.

"For your friends?" he asks me.

"Yes."

He nods, smiles. "He looks nervous."

"He is."

I take the tea back to Peeta and Prim. Prim thanks me over and over, dancing by the bonfire and sipping the hot drink with glee. Peeta's hand grazes mine when I hand him his tea, and he pulls away quickly.

"No one's looking at us," I murmur. Festivals are a time for the district to come together, and as the evening wears on, the Seam/town divide tends to blur even more than it does in the stark light of day, which gives us some breathing room.

Peeta and I stand side-by-side but at a respectable distance. We sip our drinks. I watch Delly twirling around with Mitch by the stage. I want to dance with Peeta too, want to hold him close and not feel anxious about it, but I know it's not possible. Not yet, anyway.

But Peeta's fingers brush against mine. Our hands are dangling by our sides, a few inches from each other, but I know this wasn't an accident. He does it again, and my heart swells when he tangles his fingers in mine. He squeezes and I squeeze back, and when I look at him out of the corner of my eye, I see the smile on his face.

Prim even runs off, vanishing through the crowd and reappearing with Gale and his siblings and mother, dancing along to the music, yet Peeta doesn't run after her like I thought he would. We just stand there by the flames, hidden in flickering lights and shadows, and enjoy this moment together.

…

I pull Peeta against me, seeking not only the warmth and shelter from the snow that his body provides, but just wanting him closer, wanting to feel his body pressed against mine. But he stops, shaking his head.

I frown. He doesn't seem to mind kissing me but when I put his hand against my chest or try to sneak my hand beneath his jacket, he gets tense, moving away.

"This is wrong," Peeta exhales roughly, his breath shaky and his body peeling away from mine. I gasp, out of breath from his slow, deep kisses, and from the loss of protection from the bitter night air.

"This?" I question, watching him shaking his limbs out.

" _This_ ," he gestures between us.

"I don't care about that. Peeta, I don't. You know that."

He shakes his head, screwing his eyes shut. "I'm not- I'm not talking about the fact that you're town and I'm Seam… I just…" He stops, sighing heavily. He turns to face me properly, and I'm struck by the self-hatred in his expression and body language. "How do you not find me repulsive?" he asks, raw and honest and seeking the truth.

It takes me a second to realise that he's not talking about our differences in birth. He's talking about Harris. About what he did to survive, to ensure Primrose could eat. Does he feel tainted, unclean? He must. I think I would too.

I want to approach, to gather him in my arms and hold him. The pain in his eyes– the self-loathing boiling there– makes my heart ache.

"We do what we need to so we can survive," I tell him. "But that's not all we are."

He laughs in disbelief in my words. "You can't honestly believe that."

"I do," I say. "I could ask you the same thing about me. I'm a Merchant. I'm the reason you starve, the reason you've been through so much and–"

"You're not the reason things are way they are," he says, his words almost angry. "You are not to blame."

"But I'm still a townie. You said so yourself, townies are bad people. How come you don't find _me_ repulsive?" I ask, and he stares at me.

"That– that's not the same thing. I– I should _disgust_ you, Katniss."

"I know it's not the same thing. I know that, I do. But you can't beat yourself up for anything that happened, Peeta. Please. Please don't." I stand and approach him. He eyes me, and only hesitates a little when I pull him towards me, hugging him close. "You're not a bad person, Peeta. No matter what anyone else says. You're not."

He presses his lips against my neck. I bury my nose into his shoulder. "How can you like me?" he asks. "A girl like you… you should be with a guy from town who can give you everything, not me."

"How could I not like you?" I ask, and he laughs again. I look up at him. "I'm serious. You're beyond kind to Prim – you'd do anything for her. You're kind and good and gentle and you stick to what you believe in. You keep your promises… you don't let innocent people get hurt. You're good, Peeta, through and through."

He looks away, clearly embarrassed, but I'm not about to let him escape.

"I like you, Peeta. I don't care what you've done."

He swallows, furrowing his brow. He looks down at me, searching for the lie in my words, for my doubt. "No matter what?" he asks.

"No matter what," I promise.

He looks troubled. "That's a lot to promise someone," he says. "I'm not all good, Katniss. You have to see that."

"Nor am I," I shrug. "But you're still here."

…

"You're too skinny," I tell him, my breath puffing out into the air. I didn't see him eat today at school, and Primrose didn't have much either. Winter's grip has fully taken hold, and the trains may not get through for another month. We Merchants will be fine; we have the money and the resources to last, but those in the Seam are more likely to starve in the winter than at any other time.

"I'm fine," Peeta dismisses my concern, but I can feel his ribs under my fingers, and I've noticed how he's become subdued recently, his skin sallow.

"Peeta…" I murmur. He leans over and kisses me. He must be able to taste the food I ate for supper tonight. It must be torture for him. It is for me, knowing that he's starving while I can eat like nothing is wrong. I've snuck him food before. It didn't go well.

He stares at the fire, face still and emotionless. "I'm fine, Katniss," he repeats.

"How's Prim?" I ask. His jaw twitches. "Still coughing?" He doesn't answer. I reach forward, touch his elbow.

"Don't," he says lowly, and I do as he asks, sitting away from him, warming myself by the flames. I feel his eyes on me. My wanting to give him food, to give him medicine for his sister, to help him because I can and because I want to, is a touchy subject, one that's caused us to descend into arguments countless times, especially since the weather has been so harsh.

The next day, I beckon over a young boy and ask him to drop a package at a certain house in the Seam in exchange for a loaf of still-warm bakery bread.

Two nights later, Peeta makes me jump when he appears out of the darkness and pulls me into his arms, kissing me so hard I'm sure my lips will end up bruised.

"You're so godamn frustrating," he gasps against my mouth.

…

Harris is a grey cloud, a lingering, clawed shadow, lurking in the darkness. Whenever I see him I feel sick and angry, my mood turning sour the second I see him.

I'm working in the square, helping Delly string lights across the front of her parent's store, and look up when she makes a noise of disgust.

"Why does he just _stand_ there?" she asks, keeping her voice low. "He and Cray do it all the time. Watching people like that… it makes me so uncomfortable."

I glance over my shoulder. Harris stands across the square, on patrol duty. I look away, focusing on the sparkle of the lights in my hands and not the way my stomach feels like lead.

"You live not far from him, don't you?" Delly asks, oblivious to my hatred towards the man.

"Yeah," I mutter.

"At least it's not Cray," she says, reaching down. I pass her a strand of lights for her to arrange. I don't reply, instead watching Harris via the reflection of the square behind me in the Cartwright's shop window. He stops to talk to a few people, both Peacekeeper and civilian, though none of them seem particularly happy about it.

"Katniss!" Delly calls, and I jump, looking up at her. She's reaching down expectantly.

"Sorry," I say, passing her a nail so she can secure the lights and stop them from falling in the wind. When I look back at the reflection, my blood runs cold.

He's talking to someone different. Someone I could recognise from a mile off, now, even bundled up in a jacket and knitted hat.

Peeta. I feel my pulse beginning to quicken as I watch. I can't hear him, but simply from the way Peeta is angling himself away from the older man, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders, I can tell that whatever he's saying is making him uncomfortable. Even being in the same street as the keeper makes him antsy, so this must be hell for him to endure.

I can't help turning around to watch the exchange more closely. I'm angry that he's even allowed _near_ Peeta, maddened that he thinks he can do whatever he wants. That makes me even more furious, because he _can_ do whatever he wants. He's a Peacekeeper, a source of authority and control, who has power over almost everyone around him.

Attacking, let alone killing, a Peacekeeper is a crime punishable by death. It's seen as a direct assault on the Capitol, but the satisfaction of having Harris gone, of preventing him from ever hurting anyone ever again, makes any repercussions seem worthwhile.

I see red when Harris puts his hand on Peeta's shoulder. Peeta is just far enough away from him that it's really only a finger graze, but he pulls away nevertheless, distancing himself.

When Harris finally lets him go, he walks away from the square, looking like he's about to pass out. He doesn't see me but I see the look on his face, his wide eyes, his pale skin. He bumps into someone but doesn't stop to apologise, and is gone in a heartbeat, almost running from the square. I look back at Harris, who's already walking on, strolling over the cobbles with his hand resting on his gun.

"Peeta," Delly whispers, and my head snaps around so I can look at her. She's stood right beside me. I hadn't even realised that she'd climbed down from the ladder, or that she was following what I was watching. Her blue eyes are wide as she stares at me. "Is it him?" she asks. She's been convinced I've been seeing someone but hasn't figured out if that's the case, nor who the person is. "Katniss, you didn't. Not after what I said."

I shush her, gripping her arms. "You have to believe that I couldn't tell you anything. I still can't. It's a long and complicated story and… please, you have to trust me. I would've told you if I could. You're my best friend. You know I don't keep anything from you unless I have to."

She furrows her brow, taking in my words. "If… if there's stuff you really can't tell me, okay. But – but I thought… you and him. _Peeta Mellark._ I didn't think anything would happen."

I look out to the square. Harris is long gone. I focus back on Delly. "Neither did I."

"I don't want you to get hurt," she says, genuinely concerned.

"I won't," I reply. "Things are okay, though. They are."

She doesn't seem convinced but nods. I smile gratefully at her. Delly Cartwright is one of the smartest people I know. She understands when to respect people's wishes, when not knowing something is much better than knowing.

She picks up a wreath, smoothing down a ribbon tied to it. "Is he good to you?" she asks.

"Yes." I answer without hesitation.

"Okay," she replies, her eyes still worried. "If you're sure."

I squeeze her hand and smile at her. She smiles back, and even though it's just as small as mine, I know I have a true ally, and that Peeta has one too.

…

Peeta is waiting for me, like he promised. It's been over twenty-four hours since I saw Harris talking to him in the square, and I've spent each of those hours sick to my stomach with worry. I know for a fact that Peeta hasn't spoken to him since that October night. Perhaps I've been foolish to believe that it would stay that way.

I storm towards him, ready to say a whole load of things that I haven't really thought through, but immediately deflate when he jumps up at the sound of my footsteps crunching in the snow and looks at me with wide, shiny eyes.

"What did he say to you?" I ask, cupping his face in my hands, checking for injuries even though there's no way there could be any, not from Harris' hands, not yet.

Peeta stutters out a few sounds, his eyes watering.

"Peeta!" I hiss, my heart feeling like it's about to leap out of my chest. "Please. What did he say?"

"N-nothing," he answers. "Nothing."

He's shaking, I realise, and I don't know how much of it is caused by the cold.

I step away from him, holding my face in my hands for a moment, trying to keep my mind clear and ordered. Peeta's the one who actually had to come face-to-face with that man, who had to speak to him, who had to have his hand on his shoulder, so how come I feel so drained, so sickened, so unclean?

Peeta pulls my hands from my face, brushes his thumb over my cheek. He smiles gently at me. I want to cry. How can he be so strong, so gentle, and so calm, despite everything he's been through? I've seen him weak, seen him defenceless and bleeding on my kitchen table, but somehow this is much worse. This quietness, this selflessness, this will to go on despite the world pushing against him.

"Hey," he whispers, his words shaky. "Hey, I'm okay."

I stare at him. He's skinny. So skinny. After he almost passed out and admitted all he'd eaten for the past three days was hot water boiled with dried leaves, I'd forced him to accept my help. I'd bought him stuff from the bakery, from the grocer's. But it isn't enough. I don't have enough money to buy him what he needs for his family, and until he graduates, he can't work in the mines, can't have an income of his own. There's nothing for him and it kills me that I can do so little.

The lines outside Cray's have been getting longer. People are desperate. My parents have already been to three houses. It's their duty as Capitol-contracted physicians to visit the homes of those who have passed, and to report these deaths to the Justice Building.

This is exactly what was happening the last time, when things were so bad that Peeta was forced to knock on the door of number thirty-eight. I feel like I'm in a time loop, a helpless spectator watching death consume all in its path.

"You're not okay, Peeta," I tell him, my voice cracking. His face crumples for a split second before he schools it into a mask. "You can't," I say. "You can't. You can't go to him again."

"Katniss…"

"He'll kill you. You know he could."

His words are as hollow as I feel. "I know that."

"Peeta–"

He can't promise me he won't.

…

The train manages to get through. The Capitol has impeccable timing.

I spot Gale and Peeta at the station, both thin, both stubborn, both swaying in the wind. My heart swells with hope, with fear.

…

We plan to meet like we always do. I wait in the cold and the dark for over half an hour, listening to the wind and the silence of the snow, but he never comes.

I tell myself it doesn't mean anything. That it's okay.

When I go to bed, my fingers and toes numb from the cold, I peek through the gap in my curtain.

There's light coming from one of Harris' windows. A perpetually closed curtain has been pulled open, just enough to let a slice of light shine through, cutting a thin line against the snow outside.

Odd, I think to myself, before sliding my own curtains tightly shut.

…

The next day, I don't see Peeta walking into school with his sister and Vick and Rory Hawthorne, but by second period, he's in his usual seat. He looks exhausted and thin and there's a hardness in his eyes that makes me feel uncertain. He doesn't seem to notice me walk in. I want to go to him, to ask him where he was last night, but the teacher is in a foul mood and yells for everyone to sit down and be silent, and I don't get a chance.

…

Over the weekend, I don't see or hear from Peeta. At school on Monday, the trend continues. He's like a ghost, vanishing into mid-air seconds after I spot him, never looking my way, and never giving any indication as to why he won't meet me like we used to. I go out and wait, just in case, but he never shows.

I'm confused. Have I done something wrong? Something to upset him?

"It's like he's a figment of my imagination," I tell Delly, when she asks me what's on my mind. "Like he never even existed."

Later that day, at lunch, there's a buzz in the air. A tension. I can't place what it is, but once I've sat down at my usual table with Delly and the others, I get my answer soon enough.

"- cordoned off the whole street! Bron found out what was going on and told his mother and now _everyone_ knows," Lillia is saying, her eyes wide as she speaks, enjoying that the entire table is focused on her. "My father has forbidden me from going anyway _near_ the place!"

"What's going on?" I quietly ask Delly, sitting beside her.

"Peacekeeper Harris was found dead in his house a couple of hours ago. They think someone killed him."

I feel my mouth dropping open. _Harris is dead._ I look over my shoulder, finding Peeta's blond head amid the crowds at the other side of the hall. _They think someone killed him_.

The rest of the day is spent listening to rumours about the murder of the Peacekeeper. I can't escape it, no matter where I go in the school. The bathrooms? Gossiping girls stood by the mirrors. The hallways? People debating who could've had the guts to kill a keeper. And in the classrooms? Delly, asking me if I saw anything.

"No," I mumble. "No. There was nothing when I left for school this morning."

The rumours get grislier and grislier as the afternoon wears on. Although Harris was only found a few hours before midday and there's no way for any civilian to have seen the body or learnt about what has happened, the people in Twelve have very active imaginations, and gossip of any kind spreads like wildfire.

 _I heard there was blood all over the walls – his neighbours complained of a smell!_

 _I heard that they heard the sounds of a fight!_

 _I heard the murderer is still on the loose – the keepers will be frantic, wondering if they're next._

 _Who has a vendetta against keepers, though, and so bad that they'd want to kill one?_

 _My cousin was arrested by a keeper once – he egged her house._

 _That's not the same as murder, though, is it? Your cousin is just a baby._

Regardless of how much truth is in these whispers, it makes me feel queasy, not because of the gore, but because I fear I know who did it, and what will happen afterwards if my hunch is true.

The last lesson of the day is Home Economics. Like I did so long ago, I walk towards my desk, three in front of Peeta's, and see him sat with his chin in his hand as he stares listlessly out of the window. I linger by my desk for a moment longer instead of sitting down, determined to make him look my way. Finally, he looks around. We make eye contact for the first time in days.

A bruise graces the side of his face. _It could be anything_. _His mother. A fight._ But it most likely isn't.

He doesn't seem surprised, or concerned, just tired, like he sees no use in saying or doing anything. He simply understands that I know. That I've figured it all out.

…

That evening, I convince Rye to cover for me and sneak out, hurrying towards the Seam, freezing cold but burning hot with fear and anxiety. The Mellark house is dark and quiet when I arrive on its porch, but I knock anyway. There's some shuffling inside, and eventually the door creaks open.

It's Mrs Mellark.

"Whadda you want?" she says, her voice raspy, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. I wrap my coat tighter around myself.

"Is- is Peeta in?" I ask her, and her lip curls.

"No," she says, and starts to shut the door, so I wedge my foot between it and the jamb. I glimpse the woman Peeta has told me about when she glares at me with a ferocity I've only ever seen in her son, but I don't relent.

"I just want to know where he is," I tell her, and she sneers.

"If he's knocked you up, you'd be better off alone," she says. "Better that than him for a husband."

"I'm not–" I trail off, stunned, but she's already slamming the door in my face and bolting it tightly.

I walk home in a daze. My parents ask me where I've been, and I tell them I needed some air, but they scold me for walking around alone at night when whoever murdered Harris is still out there.

…

Overnight, paranoia sweeps through the streets of Twelve as people learn about Harris and realise that whoever killed him is still free. Peacekeepers come out in force, all armed with guns, never without their helmets. The curfew is brought forward. Neighbours remind each other to lock their doors at night. District 12 suddenly becomes heavily policed, for what could be the first time in its history.

In a distressing change of attitude, Commander Cray is at the centre of it all, bellowing out warnings in the square.

"Whoever dared to attack and kill an officer from the Capitol _will_ be found! Do not fool yourselves into believing that this crime will go unanswered for. The culprit will face a public execution for this heinous assault against the Capitol."

The post once used for whippings and for the firing squad is erected in the square to serve as a warning of what is to come. The sight of it each day when I pass it on my way to and from school makes me feel sick.

Upon realising that it was Peeta who killed Harris, I've been terrified of what will come next. If and when Peeta is caught, he'll be publically executed, his name forever remembered as that of a Capitol traitor. If she doesn't disappear, life will become a hundred times harder for Prim– no one would risk associating with someone whose brother attacked the Capitol so directly.

The more I think about the consequences of what he's done, the angrier I get. How could he do this, when he knew what the damage would be? Why didn't he speak to me? I would've listened. I would've done everything in my power to stop him from having to go to number thirty-eight ever again, to stop him from having to go to such extremes.

And now it's too late. Too late to turn back, too late to wipe our hands clean and start again. I wish I could speak to him. I wish he wasn't hiding from me. I want to shake him and ask him what the hell he was thinking, but also to hold him close, knowing how precarious his world must be right now.

To make matters worse, Cray orders that every home in the Seam is to be searched. He's convinced that's where he'll find the culprit, or at least a murder weapon, or perhaps some other damning proof of a crime witnessed only by the killer and by Harris.

At the end of the day, I stand by the gates with Delly and watch the crowds of students flooding out of the building. Those from the Seam are hurrying to get home, and, far ahead, I see Peeta, Prim, and the two Hawthorne brothers.

"How'd they know someone from the Seam did it?" asks Delly, hunching her shoulders against the wind. "There's no reason to ransack their houses like that."

"Cray hates Seam folk. And he'll do anything to find out who did it," I mumble. He, out of all the other keepers, seemed closest to Harris. It makes sense that he'd be jumpy, considering he too exchanges coins for sexual favours. Perhaps he fears that he'll be next.

That evening, at dinner, all my family can talk about is Harris and the Commander. They speculate as to who the killer is, but I don't take part, instead sitting quietly, picking at my food. Rye kicks me under the table. I look up and he raises his eyebrows, asking _what's wrong_? I shake my head and he frowns. I glance at our parents. _Not now. Not here._

The conversation stalls when the sound of someone knocking on the door drifts up from downstairs. Father stands to answer it. Mother asks Rye about his day.

"Kit," says father a moment later. I look up, not even realising he'd returned. "It's for you," he says.

"Who is it?" asks mother. People don't usually come knocking for me, and given the curfew and the patrolling keepers, it seems odd that someone would be out and about this late at night.

"A Seam boy," he replies, and I drop my fork. "Aymee Mellark's son, I think."

"Peeta?" I ask, my chair scraping against the floor in my haste to stand.

"Why is he knocking for you?" asks mother, confused. My father and brother stare at me like I've grown a third eye. "Wait a minute, Kit. I didn't know you knew– Katniss, wait!"

I don't let her finish, hurrying down the stairs to the shop kitchen. Peeta stands there, on the doormat, melted snow puddling around his feet.

"Peeta," I gasp, going to him. "Where have you _been_?"

He's shaking, and the expression on his face indicates that it's not just because of the cold. I pull him to me, hugging him tightly, so unbelievably relieved to have him in my arms that I feel tears forming.

"I'm sorry," he's whispering, voice low and rough in my ear. "I'm sorry."

I bury my nose into his shoulder, crushing him against me. "Where _were_ you?" I ask, pulling away. "I waited for you but you never showed and then I heard about Harris and–"

Peeta hushes me, his eyes desperate. I lower my voice. "Why didn't you talk to me? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to involve you. I couldn't, Katniss. I won't let you get hurt."

"I'm going to if you keep having secrets," I say. "I need you to talk to me, not shut me out, not at time like this."

"After… after it happened," he shakes his head, his expression becoming dazed. "After… I didn't know what to do. I wasn't going to go to you. I couldn't let you become implicated in what _I_ did. I'm sorry. I'm sorry but I- I panicked and I–"

He stops, looking over my shoulder. I turn and see my mother coming down the stairs, her face etched with confusion and concern. It's understandable. In her mind, there's no reason for Peeta Mellark to be calling for me, let alone for me to run down to him.

"Mother–" I say. Peeta steps away from me, ducking his head.

"Katniss…" she responds, brow creasing. "What's going on?"

"I'm fine," I tell her. "I just a need a moment, please. Alone."

Her eyes flicker to Peeta, and then back to me. I go to her.

"Everything's okay," I say quietly. "I promise I'll explain. Just, please go back upstairs."

"Are you two… is he…" she exhales, struggling to communicate her ideas. She glances over my shoulder to the Seam boy lingering by the door, and then to me, down towards–

"No!" I hiss, affronted that she'd even think such a thing. "No, I'm not pregnant!"

She brings her hand to her forehead. "I– I just thought– you've been so tired lately and not eating properly and–"

"I'm _not_ , mother. We're just friends. _Just_ friends. This is nothing to do with anything like that," I say, meeting her eyes as I do so, ensuring that she can see that I'm telling her the truth.

"Okay," she says. "Okay. If you're sure you're alright."

"I am," I say earnestly, and she presses her lips into a line.

"We're going to talk," she says, and I nod, knowing that would be inevitable.

She heads back upstairs, and I spin to face Peeta.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I shouldn't have come. You're with your family and–" His eyes widen. "I didn't think, Katniss. I didn't think about it."

"It's okay," I shake my head, guiding him into the same recovery room he slept in months prior, and shutting the door securely behind us. In the small, cramped room, there's nothing to separate us, nothing for either of us to hide behind. Peeta's eyes are troubled as he looks down at me. He looks like he hasn't slept at all in the past few days.

"You want to know the truth, don't you?" he asks me, voice low and steady. I take a calming breath and nod, bracing myself. Peeta's throat bobs. "You want to know if I did it."

"I already know you did," I reply. He lifts his chin slightly, eyes scanning my face, searching for what? Fear? Hatred? Disgust? "I'm not scared of you, Peeta," I tell him. "It– it doesn't matter."

His expression cools. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not. It doesn't matter to me, at least not in the way you think it does."

He stares in disbelief. "It doesn't matter?"

"No. It's better that he's gone and–"

" _Katniss,"_ he hisses. " _No._ Don't make me into… into some kind of– of _hero_. I- I'm a monster, Katniss. I did a bad thing."

He slumps down onto the bed, holding his head in his hands. There's a long moment where neither of us say a word.

"Why'd you do it? Why'd you kill Harris?" I whisper. It's the first time I've articulated it, the first time one of us have actually said the words to each other. They hang in the air, sharp and suffocating. When he doesn't answer, I wonder if I've crossed some invisible line, but then see how he's thinking hard, trying to figure out what to say.

"The reason he… the reason I went back to him," he begins. "I didn't want to. I never wanted to be there in the first place, but…"

"You had no other choice," I nod.

"I didn't that first time, or after," he says, his eyes far-away, as he recalls what he'd rather keep supressed. "But he said that if I didn't come back, he'd report me for poaching. Gale too. He said if I didn't come back, if I said _anything_ to _anyone_ , he'd have Prim put in the orphanage, that he'd make life hell for her. I couldn't let that happen.

"After – after that last time, when I ended up here… I didn't go back for a long time. I knew he was watching me. He'd follow Prim and I home. He was mad that I was defying him. So he caught me in the square, said Cray'd been lookin' at Prim funny." He exhales shakily. I realise that must have been when I saw him in the square, when he'd fled and Harris had strolled on, completely at ease. "He'd told me to come see him so I said yes 'cus I couldn't say no and I didn't know what else to do. I figured I'd go to him and leave if he tried anything but… I don't know. He offered me a drink and I said no and he got mad and…"

Peeta stops, lost in his head, in a memory. "I can't remember. I guess I'd planned to make him stop– to make him leave me and Prim alone, but… at the same time I just panicked. He pulled a gun and I freaked out. The next thing I knew, he was dead."

He blinks, coming back to himself, and looks down at me.

"It's okay," I whisper. I'm surprised I don't feel more shocked, more horrified, more disgusted by Peeta's admission, and it seems he feels that way too.

"How are you so calm about all of this?" he asks me, shaking his head in confusion.

I don't know how to answer him. Truth be told, I don't have one, not one that fully explains how I feel. I'm stunned, of course, that Peeta killed a Peacekeeper, but I don't feel any second-hand guilt, nor any fear towards him. I know him enough to understand that he isn't a violent person. Killing Harris was not premeditated. He didn't plan for the keeper to end up dead. All he wanted was for him to stop, for his life to be freely his once again, without the threat of Prim being hurt hanging over his head. I can't find it in my heart to blame him for that.

"There are other things for me to be worried about," I tell him. He releases a breath, scrubbing his face with his hands. "Are you okay?" I ask, sitting beside him.

"Yeah," he replies lowly. "I'm fine."

"I went to your house to find you but your mom said you weren't there and slammed the door in my face."

"I was in the woods," says Peeta. "I didn't know what I was going to do. Gale and I'd always talked about leaving. About taking his mother and our siblings and just – just _going_. It was just the first place I thought to go."

"What happened today?" I ask. "I saw that Cray'd ordered for the Seam to be searched."

"When we got home they were tearing the house apart. Mom was furious. I was convinced they'd figure it out… that somehow they'd know it was me and that I'd be executed right there and then. And then they just… _left_." He blinks. "Nothing happened."

I stare at him. "Do you – do you think they'll find out it was you?"

Serious crimes like this aren't at all common in District 12, and I can't remember the last time there was a murder. I don't know the protocol for dealing with this kind of thing. We don't have the technology they have in other districts or in the Capitol, meaning that it's up to Peacekeepers and any witnesses to piece together crimes. I can only hope that this fact is what puts Peeta's odds in his favour.

His eyes meet mine, so bright and blue and filled with uncertainty, as he stutters out an answer. "I don't know."

I pull him to me. "I'm just glad you're okay," I say into his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around me, squeezing tight.

After a minute, he pulls away. "I need to go."

I think of my family, waiting upstairs. What has Rye told our parents? What are they thinking? I'm not looking forward to their questions.

"I'm sorry for interrupting your evening," Peeta says, and I shake my head.

"You didn't. It's fine. I'm just happy to see you," I reply, smoothing my thumb over his cheekbone. He smiles, but it doesn't meet his eyes in the way I've seen before. It feels like he's pulling away from me, drifting closer to the person I knew a few months ago, who was brusque and distrustful, and rightly so.

"What are you going to say to your parents?" he asks softly.

"If I can get a word in edgeways, I'll tell them…" I trail off. "I don't know. I'll tell them we're just friends… We can still keep it from becoming gossip, from reaching your mother."

Peeta furrows his brow. "I don't think my mom will care," he says. "But I don't want you to keep secrets from your folks, not for my sake."

"I've kept it a secret all this time. What they don't know won't hurt them."

"Katniss…"

"They'll want some kind of explanation. I just tell them we're friends."

He sighs, but eventually nods. "How do you think they'll react?"

I don't recall him having had to interact with my parents very often, apart from occasional trades with Gale, but I think his mother was friends with my own, a long time ago. Hopefully that'll provide some kind of buffer.

"They probably won't expect me to be friends with someone like you," I say, smiling slightly. "Let alone dating."

"A Seam boy?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Of course not. They were probably dreaming of some handsome townie to sweep their youngest off her feet."

"And instead I got you," I say wryly. I squeeze his hands. "It'll be fine."

I know he's anxious. I am too. This wasn't how I would've broken the news to my parents, even news that is a half-truth. I figured that the true nature of our relationship would be revealed of my own volition, not like this. But things haven't been going the way I planned for some time now, so I guess I shouldn't have expected anything different.

"What if they hate me?" he asks. "What if they refuse to let you near me… what if–"

I hush him, shaking my head. "They can't tell me not be _friends_ with someone," I say. "Don't think like that. It'll be alright," I look up at him, giving him an almost convincing smile of encouragement.

Peeta frowns. He's got that look on his face again, the kind that means he's questioning everything, asking the same things he did so long ago. Whether the potential repercussions of our relationship would be worth it, if I knew what I was getting myself into. He was fearful then of how people would react to us, and now I'm going to find out.

"Delly thinks we're cute together," I say, and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

"Cartwright? The shoemaker's daughter? She knows we're… _together_?"

"Yeah. She figured it out."

"How?"

I blush then. "She said she knew I had a soft spot for you. She knew something was up but didn't guess what it was right away." I duck my head, focusing on a button on his jacket. "Anyway, she supports us."

Peeta lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. A smug smirk is shining through his exhaustion, one that makes me squirm and _feel things_. "You had a soft spot for me?" he asks, and I laugh awkwardly. "I'm flattered. I never knew."

My cheeks darken even further. "Well, you do now."

Peeta grins, and leans down to kiss me. I put everything I have into it, trying to convince him that I'm on his side, that everything is going to be okay even when I know there's a high chance everything could fall apart, that our story could result in tragedy.

"I don't think people are going to be _that_ shocked," I say against his lips. "I think there are more people like us than you think."

He nods, thoughtful. "Maybe. But that doesn't guarantee that your folks won't want me shot for getting involved with their daughter, even if you're telling them we're just friends."

I frown at his words, any heat I felt from our kiss quickly dissipating. "Don't say things like that," I murmur, thinking of the whipping post set up in the square, of Cray's sudden change from lazy Commander to someone to be feared.

Peeta sighs, pressing his forehead against mine. "I love you," he says, like it's nothing, but I feel how his grip on my waist has tightened. I close my eyes, feeling a smile pulling at my lips despite everything. "I figure I'd better say it before it's too late."

"Hey, no," I say. "Stop. Don't, Peeta. If you– you know what they'll do to you if you get caught. No trial, no chance of mercy–" I break off, suddenly choked up. Peeta is bewildered at my sudden surge in emotion.

"I don't mean to upset you. I wasn't even thinking about that. I was talking about your parents."

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Still. You know more than anyone how much is at risk here."

He kisses my forehead. I hold onto him, feeling that if I let him go I'll never see him again. After a moment, he speaks. "You didn't say _I love you_ back," he says, his vulnerability surprising me.

"I love you too," I reply, feeling my heart swell at the words. Peeta laughs through his nose, and I sigh. "I can't believe you said it first," I tell him.

"You think a guy like me ain't got a heart?" he asks. "I may like late night fist-fights and drunken brawls but I still acknowledge when I care about someone."

His echoing of my words from so long ago make me smile. I look up at him. "Are you going to be alright getting home?"

"I'll be fine," he promises. I nod.

"Okay."

We step out of the side-room. Sat on the table in the centre of the shop kitchen is a pot, with a note stuck to the top. Someone must have come down while Peeta and I were talking; the fact that we were behind a closed door will no doubt make my white lie about us being _just friends_ even harder to convincingly deliver, though I'm more concerned as to whether our hushed words were overheard.

"What's that?" Peeta asks, and I pick up the note.

 _For Peeta. Make him take it. We won't take no for an answer._

I crumple the note into my pocket.

"It's a gift. You have to take it or they'll be _really_ offended."

"I can't," he says quietly, looking towards the staircase as if he'll find my parents or brother lingering there, waiting for him to deny their gift.

"You can," I say, picking up the pot. It's still warm, holding the stew father made for this evening's supper, which was supposed to last until the end of the week.

I push the pot into his arms. He holds it like it's a baby.

"Why?" he asks, seeming genuinely confused. I'm not entirely sure of my parents' motives either, but I have a feeling they're good.

"You're my friend," I say, giving him a look. "My parents like to get to know my friends." Peeta stares at the pot in his hands. I tug at the collar of his jacket, feeling cold simply looking at the thin material, knowing that outside it's cold and icy. "You'll just have to bring the pot back," I shrug, smiling at him.

"You're impossible," he says, sounding a little breathless. "Thank you, Katniss. Tell your folks _thank you_."

At the door, he sneaks a kiss against my forehead, and then, after glancing up and down the darkened street, he ducks out into the snow. I watch until he's out of sight.

When I turn away from closing and locking the door, I find my father stood at the bottom of the stairs. I feel my eyes widen. Did he see the kiss? Has my ruse already been foiled?

"Your mother is upset," he says. I wrap my arms around myself.

"Are you?" I ask, and his stern expression holds for a moment before breaking to reveal a tired half-smile.

"I don't think so," he says, beckoning me towards him. He puts his arm around me when I'm close enough. "You aren't the person I've seen to fall in love with someone people didn't think they should be with."

I feel my chest tighten at his words. I look up at him, shocked, and then quickly try to cover my tracks.

"That's not– we aren't–"

Father shakes his head. I gulp. So much for keeping it a secret. "It's alright, Kit."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," I mumble.

"I'm sorry we made you feel that you couldn't."

"It's hardly your fault."

"We're your parents. We should've made it clear that whatever you choose to do with your life, and whoever you choose to live it with, won't stop us from loving you."

I grimace. "Mother- she doesn't know."

"You want to keep it quiet for a moment?"

"You aren't going to tell her?"

"I understand that some things are best kept quiet… and I'm not going to out you, not unless that's what you want."

I blink back my grateful tears. "Thank you, father. Thank you."

He nods, sadness tinging his expression. "I trust you to make all the right decisions, Kit."

"I will," I nod, as we reach the top of the stairs. Rye and mother are still sat at the table. They both look up when we enter the kitchen.

Mother grills me for the next hour, while father sits quietly. I can't believe he's agreed to keep the true nature of my relationship with Peeta a secret for the time being, and I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay him.

Mother seems slightly doubtful that Peeta and I are _just friends_ , but thankfully doesn't push it any further. My father asks how Peeta and I met in the first place since we run in totally different circles.

I tell my parents about the dog and the tree and the rope, and then skip around the total truth of a few months ago, as _that_ wasn't part of what Peeta and I discussed downstairs, and I figure that implicating him with Harris wouldn't be the smartest thing to do when he was found dead just a few days ago.

"I saw him collapse in the street," I say, sticking to the same story I gave when Rye and I took Peeta back to the Seam. "He couldn't remember much– still can't– but he thinks he was jumped. His head was bleeding… I knew I couldn't leave him out in the cold."

My parents don't seem at all upset about my being involved – no matter the terms of the relationship – with a Seam boy. Their only concerns are the same ones Delly and Rye had. That I'm safe and happy. I promise them that I am.

Later, once father and Rye have retired to bed given the late hour and the early start in the shop tomorrow, my mother and I talk over mugs of herbal tea.

"You're just friends?" she asks for the millionth time, and I nod, though much less convincingly than before. I feel more and more guilty each time she asks.

Mother leans back in her seat, pursing her lips. "Even if… even if it were never on the cards," she begins slowly. "I want you to know that if you _were_ to become _more than friends_ , I wouldn't be upset. I want you to know that, Kit."

I'm certain that my face is the colour of a tomato, but try to keep my expression indifferent. "Okay," I answer, sipping my drink. Mother narrows her eyes, and then sighs.

"I gather your friendship isn't something you've shared with many others?"

I shake my head. "No. He didn't even want to be associated with me at first. His mother…" I trail off, unsure of how and what to explain.

"Aymee," mother nods, gaze growing distant. "I understand his hesitation."

I sense there's more there, but don't ask when she doesn't offer an explanation. Something must have happened between Peeta's mother and those in town she used to be friendly with when she left to marry Mr Mellark, but it isn't my place to pry. I'd rather Peeta tell me, if he wanted to.

"I only want the best for you," says mother, her brow creased. "I hope you know that."

I nod my head. She squeezes my hand. "Did he take the pot?"

"Yes. I had to persuade him."

"He's ever so skinny. I know Seam folk are, given the weather, but… I don't usually see them like that. We had to do something."

"He gives up a lot of food so his little sister can eat."

"Primrose," mother nods. "I hope that stew can be some help to them."

"I'm sure it will be," I say, though her returning smile is small.

…

Two days later, at school, I find a note in my locker.

 _Prim loved the stew. Thank you._

 _P._

I smile, folding the scrap of paper up and slipping it into my pocket. I write a response on a piece of paper from my notebook, passing it and the cookie from my lunch to Prim.

 _My mother wants to discuss a trade deal with you!_

 _Bring the pot back on_ _Thursday_ _if you want to talk to her._

…

The following day, Rye and I watch from the shop kitchen as a team of keepers head into number thirty-eight, clearing the place out, burning some of Harris' old things, repainting the bricks, scrubbing the grimy windows. It's cathartic to watch.

"Does Peeta ever talk about it?" my brother asks, his voice low. Mother is out visiting a patient, but father is just next door. I can hear him advising a customer.

After Peeta's unexpected visit a few nights prior, Rye asked me countless questions, wanting to know what I was going to do, what Peeta and I are going to do in the years to come. I answered the best I could, but felt the need to drop the subject. Rye isn't stupid. He is the only person asides from Peeta and I to know anything about what happened behind the door of thirty-eight that resulted in a Seam boy lying on our table, and I intend to keep it that way. But this also means that it surely won't be long until Rye starts suspecting the truth, starts connecting what Harris did to Peeta to the Peacekeeper's sudden death. Unless he already has, that is.

I fold my arms over my chest, staring out through the glass as a keeper loads a box from the house into an awaiting cart.

"No," I murmur. "Not really. I tend not to ask."

Rye nods.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to guess what he's trying to get at. "It'll be nice not to see him there anymore," I say. "A new face in that house will help with forgetting."

"I agree," says Rye, moving away to check some of the pots bubbling on the stove.

…

In the days that follow, Peeta remains free from Cray, free from the law. I'm restless and distracted, constantly on edge about the whole thing. I can only hope that as time goes by, this feeling of being vigilant at all times will fade away, as it becomes more and more unlikely that Peeta will be found out.

He's equally as anxious, mentioning how he can't sleep, can't walk past a keeper without feeling a chill roll down his spine. I try to reassure him but there's little I can do to help when my nerves are a mess as well. No one can do anything. It's simply a matter of waiting to see what happens next.

"My parents don't hate you," I tell him. "But my father knows the truth."

Peeta's eyes widen. "What? How?"

"He knew right away."

"Oh."

"It's okay, though," I say, hugging him close to try and escape the chill of the wind.

"It is?"

"Yes. They both like you."

"I can't believe that." At my expression he narrows his eyes slightly. "They really don't hate me?"

"Of course not," I whisper. Around us, snow is falling in delicate flurries, whipped up by the wind. Your fears are all in your head."

"Not entirely."

"No," I agree. "Not entirely. I know they're real. They're real for me too."

"At least _you_ don't have to worry about meeting my mom," he says, amusement glittering in his eyes. I furrow my brow.

"I've met her a handful of times and–"

"Exactly. That's more than enough." He presses his lips together, looking at me. "She lost her place in my life long ago. I'm not letting her get back in."

I sigh, hating that Peeta was forced to become an adult so soon, abandoned and abused by the adults who were supposed to shelter and protect him.

"Don't get upset," he says softly, reading my thoughts.

"How can I not?" I ask.

"Just be grateful for your own folks," he shrugs. "Don't worry about me."

"Peeta–"

"What I mean to say is that my mom- she doesn't matter. She isn't important. All I care about is that your folks don't hate me."

I roll my eyes. "You don't realise the effect you have on people, do you?"

"My _effect_?"

"Yes. You charm people, Peeta. You don't even realise. There's something about you that people like. I know you don't think so, but it's true."

"So all these years, I've been mistaking the name-calling and threats for signs of friendship?"

"No," I say, pushing at his chest. "You know what I mean."

"Did I charm _you_?" he asks, smirking. I feel my cheeks redden.

"Shut up."

"I did," he says, voice dripping with satisfaction. "I charmed you senseless."

I clasp his face in my hands and kiss him hard, mainly to shut him up, and then pull away, leaving him wide-eyed and panting for breath. "I'll see you later," I tell him, taking a few steps back. He sighs, eyes narrowing slightly, his gaze dark and alluring.

I walk further away, and then look over my shoulder. "Be safe, Peeta. Please."

We both know I'm not just referring to his journey back to the Seam.

...

Three days later, a new Peacekeeper moves into number thirty-eight.

I'm stood outside, scraping ice off a water pipe, when the new keeper approaches, clad in a crisp uniform, still white and free from the coal dust that will quickly turn it grey. She's young, cheerful-looking, though I can't help but distrust her because of Cray's sudden change from slack to strict. New Peacekeepers tend to be more loyal to the Capitol, too, so I'm wary of how to act around her.

I doubt she knows what happened here just a few weeks ago, though I'm sure it won't take long for her the find out.

"Hi," she says. Her accent is strong, not yet softened by years of living in Twelve. "You're the first neighbour I've seen!"

"Hello," I reply, standing. She reaches out a hand. I shake it. It's bizarre, but kind of refreshing, a happy change compared to who once darkened this street. "Welcome to District 12."

"Thank you so much," she replies, beaming. "Is it always this cold?"

"Only in the winter," I reply, and she laughs.

"I'm not used to snow like this. Guess it'll take time, huh?" she rubs her hands together, looks behind her up the street. It's probably time for her first patrol since arriving here. "It was nice to meet you," she says. "Have a good day."

"You too," I reply, pleasantly surprised by it all.

As she strolls away, heading for the main street, Peeta appears. He's dressed in his usual clothing, and has his game bag on his back, and my mother's pot in hand. It's the first time in years that I've seen him here in daylight, given that nor he or Gale tends to trade with my parents, and I know he must feel a little wary.

I watch the new keeper greet him as they pass, watch him stop in surprise, watch him shaking her outstretched hand and give her a bewildered smile.

The street around us is empty by the time he reaches me, but I'm still startled when he kisses me in greeting, looking towards the apothecary for prying eyes. We're thankfully alone, but Peeta must be feeling confident, given that I told him that my parents like him.

"She's new," he comments wryly, referencing the keeper. "Let's see how long that good attitude lasts, huh?"

I try not to let it show how pleasantly surprised I am by his kiss, and respond with: "I don't know. Things are changing. Perhaps she's the kind of person we need."

Peeta makes a noise of half-hearted agreement, and looks up at the backdoor of the apothecary, clearing his throat.

"Your mother is expecting me?" he asks, nervously smoothing down his hair, and I nod, remembering my parent's eagerness to trade with someone who had access to plants outside the district.

"Come on in," I say, leading the way, and we hurry in out of the snow, leaving the snow and the ice for warmth and better company.

…

More weeks pass. Consciously, I don't want to admit that my fears are lessening a little, that I'm becoming more and more hopeful that Peeta is in the clear, but subconsciously, I know that's the case.

I think Peeta is starting to realise that too. I see him at the station with Gale and Vick when a supply train manages to get through. The new female keeper living in thirty-eight spots him and exchanges conversation with him. Gale and Vick's suspicion is palpable, but Peeta appears to be relatively calm throughout it all.

When we meet up a few days later, he tells me that things are better. That he thinks things just might be okay.

I never ask him about Harris. About before he was dead, or after. Peeta doesn't bring it up. I'm sure to some that would be a point of tension, something to strain a relationship, but I find that it isn't, not with us. Instead, our mutual silence on the subject is soothing. It holds us together. I feel no fear or disgust to what Peeta did, and won't bring it up unless truly necessary.

It's part of the past, and we know better than anyone that dwelling on the past does nothing but create uncertainty about the future.

Cray remains strict, enforcing laws that have been largely pushed aside in Twelve for years. He fines someone in the Seam when they're caught with something they poached in the woods. It's not a large amount, but it's devastating for a poor Seam family. It's a shock to everyone, sending waves through the Seam and ripples through the Quarters.

I tell Peeta to be careful. He promises that he will be. That he and Gale haven't been able to catch much anyway, given the snow, and that anything they do manage to find is eaten straight away, leaving behind no trace.

But then Cray begins policing those in the Quarters, too. His disdain for those in the Seam has always been clear, but he's never been this way towards Merchants. He quickly becomes more than a shadowy figure to be wary of on dark nights, instead turning into a representation of the Capitol, into something people from all corners of District 12 begin to rally against. The hatred felt towards him becomes universal.

Despite my increasing hope in the truth about Harris being lost to time, Cray's sudden iron grip on the district has me restless, along with the rest of Twelve's citizens. Tension laces the air like the coal dust laces the snow slush at the sides of the road, grey and cold and lingering.

Everything comes to a point on the following Saturday morning. It's cold out, but the snow hasn't been falling as much as it has been. The streets are covered in grey slush that freezes solid in the night and becomes treacherous by daybreak. We have plenty of people coming in with fractured bones and bruised joints.

It's been quiet all morning, with just Rye and I manning the shop while our parents file documents at the Justice Building. Everything is relatively calm, and I'm happily thinking about when I'll next get to see Peeta, but I almost drop my broom in shock when the shop door bursts open. Delly trips through the doorway, her hair flying out behind her, shoes drenched, dress askew.

I go to her immediately, holding her arms to steady to her. She gasps for breath.

"What's wrong?" I ask, horrified.

"It's Peeta–" she gasps out. There's a terror in her voice that I've never heard before. "You've got to come quick."

My blood turns to ice at his name. I can only guess that the truth has caught up to us, that everything from my nightmares – and Peeta's, no doubt – is coming true.

"What's happened?" I ask, yanking my apron off. "Delly, tell me! What's going on?"

Delly can barely put together a sentence, but she stutters out enough. "There was a commotion – in the square. The Peacekeepers. Cray. I saw them. They've arrested Peeta for killing Harris."

The room tilts as I look at Rye, stood behind the counter. "Go," he says, already locking up the register and grabbing the keys to close the apothecary. "I'll follow you."

And then I'm gone, racing alongside Delly through the icy streets, skidding on the cobbles.

All I can think is _how did they find out? How did they find out? How did they find out?_

And then: _please, don't let it be too late._

I sense the tension and the fear in the air before I even step foot in the square. Cray's change in attitude has changed the atmosphere of Twelve over the last few weeks, and I know that arresting Peeta will be seen by him as his chance to prove that he is in control of the district. A Seam boy is an easy target. It's a miracle that he hasn't already tried to frame someone for Harris' death.

Things like this don't happen very often, not in Twelve. I don't think there's been any public punishments in some time, and there can't have been an execution in my lifetime. I'm not about to let Peeta become the one to break that trend.

I can hear Prim wailing as I shove my way through the gathered crowd, and it's then that I hear a strange sound. A whistling, the sound of an impact, and the ensuing intake of breath from the crowd. I hear someone calling my name but my pulse is thundering in my ears and I don't stop and turn to see who it is. I break through into the centre of the square and almost fall to my knees at what I find.

Peeta is tied to the whipping post. He's kneeling in the snow, arms twisted up, his shirt cut and hanging loose around his narrow hips, soaked in blood. Above his head, a squirrel is nailed to the post.

Prim is screaming her brother's name, held back by a red-headed Peacekeeper. Gale lies face-down on the ground, blood from his head seeping into the grey slush.

People speak in hushed tones around me.

 _It's not right – look how skinny he is._

 _They couldn't just shoot him and be done with it?_

"No!" I lunge forward as Cray raises his arm and the whip, jumping in front of Peeta, covering his body with mine.

"Katniss?" To my surprise, he's conscious, twisting to try and face me, his words desperate, thick with pain. "Katniss, go! Get out of here!"

Cray brings the whip down and I feel the force of it against my back, through my dress and sweater. He may be an old man, but he has a mean swing.

He pulls me away and I fall back onto my hands, feeling a sharp pain shoot up through my wrist.

"Move," he says, voice low and deadly.

"Please, Katniss," Peeta pleads. "Go."

I climb to my feet, brushing snow and grit from my hands.

"This is no business of yours, girl," says Cray, lip curling.

I see Rye pushing through to the edge of the crowd, see hundreds of pairs of eyes watching me, watching the quiet apothecaries' daughter stand up against the law.

"You have no place here. This is a matter of Capitol law." He coils the whip in his hand.

I stand in front of Peeta. He begs me to go, to take his sister and leave, but I remain, standing my ground. "You are whipping an innocent man. That too is a matter of the law. What is he accused of? Where is your proof?"

Around me, the crowd seems restless. No one likes to see this kind of thing, no one wants to be watching someone get whipped, and I can see their confusion, their fear. They're questioning what they've been told, questioning who is innocent and who is not.

A voice calls out. "Where is your proof?" Delly. I find her in the crowd. She steps forward, her hands balled into fists at her sides. This is the bravest thing she's ever done. "Public punishments require public proof!"

Another shout rings out over the heads of the people gathered. And then another. And another. People aren't willing to stand by in silence, not as Cray of all people attacks one of our own. Some of the Peacekeepers start to form a barrier. Cray is furious. He reaches for his gun, points it into the air, and fires. I jolt back at the sound. Peeta twists around, believing someone has been shot. Someone screams, some people flee the square. But Cray has everyone's attention.

"This man is a _murderer_!" he bellows, his words echoing in the square. "Peeta Mellark killed a Peacekeeper in cold blood, a crime punishable by death!"

His words make me feel sick. Sick because I know that to some degree, they are the truth. Still, I refuse to back down.

"And how are you sure that he is the killer?" I ask, raising my voice. "What grounds do you have upon him?"

Cray blinks. He falters. Whatever proof he does have, it must be flimsy, or he would've shouted it from the rooftops.

"You have none," I tell him, and then quieter so he knows I intend my words to be directly for him. "You have none."

Cray tilts his chin back, eyeing me. I meet him head-on.

"He came to my door with a trade. He has weapons – a means to kill a human, if he wanted."

A murmur ripples through the crowd. Many trade with hunters from the Seam, Peeta being one of them. Cray has been one of his customers for years. I can't believe he'd use what is a widely-known – and appreciated – fact against Peeta, or that he'd jump from poaching to murder so quickly. He must be truly desperate to find someone to blame for Harris' death.

"Weapons? You mean he has a knife? Everyone has a knife. That means we're all suspects, yes?"

Cray's nostrils flare. He eyes me in the same way he eyes all young girls.

"I have witnesses," he spits, as blood drips from the whip in his hand. "People who saw him there at the time Peacekeeper Harris was killed."

I stare at him. I remember the sliver of light I saw through the gap in Harris' curtains. Perhaps I should've know something was up, given that I'd never seen them open before. But the street was empty, it was late and cold and snowing hard. The only people who could've possibly seen Peeta were neighbouring keepers and those who live above their shops.

"That's completely circumstantial," I say.

"Where is _your_ proof? You defend this _Seam_ boy over what? You have nothing, girl. Get out of my way."

"Katniss, please," Peeta begs from behind me, his voice strained. "Please, go."

"Where is your proof?" Cray asks again.

My gaze flickers to Gale, to Prim, to my brother and Delly, to the people surrounding us. Peeta and I promised that we'd keep our relationship secret, hold it close to our hearts until we felt that we could get by on our own if people didn't accept us. But we've both seen that we have allies, and right now, it's exactly what I need to do to save him. I have to break my promise to stop this madness.

I feel my heart racing, hear Peeta's soft words behind me, know that the damage done through my half-lie will be nothing compared to Peeta being executed in the middle of the square, and take a breath. "Peeta didn't kill Harris, and I know that because that night, he was with me."

Peeta curses behind me and I flinch. People begin to murmur. Cray's face purples.

"He was with _you_?"

"Yes. He was with me. Peeta couldn't have killed Harris, because the night Harris died, Peeta was with me."

I feel a blush blooming over my cheeks as whispers begin to rise into the air, lingering like smoke. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my parents push through the crowd.

"That's convenient," Cray laughs. He turns to the crowd, clearly enjoying having an audience. "But how can I– how can _we_ – believe you?"

"She's telling the truth," Rye speaks up, his voice steady and measured. He looks at me and nods. "She's telling the truth. I saw Peeta that night. He was with my sister."

"We kept it a secret," I say. "Only a few people knew."

"You live close by number thirty-eight. A little too close for me to believe that he couldn't have killed Harris, or that you weren't his accomplice!" Cray is red in the face now, furious that what he must have thought was going to be an easy way to assert his power, an easy solve of a crime, has instead become a source public embarrassment. "You too should be tried for the murder of that man!"

"Enough!" A voice reaches above the crowd, which parts to let the mayor through. Madge is close behind. I see her survey the scene, and how her eyes linger on Gale. Her father strides towards Cray. "Enough! What is going on here?"

"He killed a Peacekeeper, and poached illegally on Capitol land! I have witnesses!"

The mayor holds out his hand. Cray falls silent. He knows that compared to the Mayor, he has no sway over the citizens of District 12. He is not one of us.

"And what evidence do you have, Miss Everdeen?" asks the Mayor.

"He was with me that night. The whole night. He couldn't have done it."

"And you have someone to back up this claim?"

"Yes."

"Whoever can vouch for Miss Everdeen, step forward," the mayor commands. Rye and Delly do so immediately, and my parents a moment later.

"Whoever can vouch for Commander Cray, step forward."

A female Peacekeeper does so, but she looks agitated, unsure, her eyes wide as the flicker from her boss to the mayor.

The mayor asks for confirmation of what I am saying. Delly goes first. "Earlier that day Katniss told me that she planned to meet Peeta. She talked about it the day after, too."

Rye lies through his teeth for me for what feels like the hundredth time in the past few months. "I saw Peeta and my sister. He left early in the morning."

Mayor Undersee addresses my parents. They're well-respected in Twelve, especially in the Quarters, and I pray that their word will set Peeta free.

"Our daughter has been dating Mr Mellark for a few months now," says my father. My mother grips his arm, watching me with wide eyes. "Just the other night, we had him over for supper."

The mayor asks the female Peacekeeper for what she saw.

"I– I–" she stammers, clearly afraid. She's stuck between her boss and the people.

"Spit it out!" Cray snarls, and she jumps.

"I- I don't know. I saw a blond head out in the street. It looked like him… but… I don't know. It was dark, late. Snowing. It could've been anyone."

Cray is furious that his witness has failed to win him his case. He points his gun at me. My mother screams.

"Put down your weapon, Commander," says the mayor. "It is clear to me that Mr Mellark did not do what you have accused him of. It is clear to us all. We have multiple witnesses who can confirm that Mr Mellark was nearby the home of the deceased but that this is a mere coincidence. Your own witness cannot confirm what she saw. It would seem to me that you do not have the authority to punish this young man, that you have let your own personal agenda go to your head."

There's a moment of silence. Cray sneers. A vein in his forehead bulges. Everyone waits, but finally he lowers his gun.

"What is the punishment for the murder of a Peacekeeper?" asks the mayor. He points at the red-headed keeper who was holding Prim. "You – tell me the authorised punishment."

The young keeper steps forward and clears his throat. Like the female keeper, he is nervous to raise his voice against Cray. "Sir, the punishment for such a crime is execution by firing squad, sir."

"Lashes are permitted for poaching, but twenty is the maximum amount." The Mayor looks at Peeta's torn-up back. "Explain yourself."

Cray can't. He just stands there, breathing hard, his eyes dark.

"Release this man," orders the mayor. "He is innocent."

I turn to Peeta. Prim runs forward, as does Delly and my brother. My hands shake as I try to unfasten Peeta's wrists from the whipping post. He groans, and Prim cries, holding his face in her hands, trying to keep him conscious.

"Arrest him," Mayor Undersee says, pointing at Cray. He's just as shocked as everyone else in the square, but recovers quicker, raising his gun as the red-headed keeper approaches him, unhooking a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

A shot cracks through the air. The red-head crumples. Cornered, Cray swirls around, pointing his gun at me. I hear people yelling, screaming, fleeing. And then the new keeper who moved into number thirty-eight shoots Cray down, her face hard, her hand steady.

The next five minutes are chaos, moving in slow-motion despite everything. The square clears, the mayor orders people around, and my parents rush over. Questions fly through the air but I'm unable to answer any of them, stunned into silence. Rye tells my parents to wait, to help now and ask later, and somehow, we come together, Seam and Merchant putting aside our differences.

Someone with a stall in the square clears their countertop and gives it to us to carry Peeta on. I see Madge kneeling beside Gale, see his family and a few others helping to pick him up from the ground. I tell Rory to bring his brother to the apothecary, and he and a few others from the crowd help to pick him up.

I run ahead of the others, propping open the front door and clearing the table. I grab everything I can think of that will be useful; gauze, bandages, tape, scissors, herbs and lotions, just in time for when Peeta is carried in. He's crying out at every movement, blood oozing from the thick gashes in his back, and as soon as he's settled on the table, I pour white liquor from the cabinet onto his skin. The sound he makes is horrifying, but it has to be done to stop the infection.

Gale is brought in a second later. He's staggering, half of his face covered in blood.

"Put him in there," I instruct, pointing to a side room. "Delly, go outside and get snow. We need to put a snow coat on his back and–"

Rye's hand settles on my shoulder. "Breathe, Kit. Everything's gonna be alright."

I nod, swallowing hard. Delly is already gone, collecting snow out in the street. My father is thanking those who helped carry Gale and Peeta here, and my mother scrubbing her hands at the sink.

I see the questions in her eyes every time she looks at me. Over these past few weeks, she's grown more and more convinced that Peeta and I really are just friends. Now, though, she's realising that her hunch was right all along. I know I'll have hell to answer for later, but right now, she knows that there's someone who needs her help, and that nothing else matters. We clean Peeta's back of blood, cutting away what remains of his shirt. It's not too bad, not as bad as it looked when he was slumped over in the square, but _not too bad_ is enough to kill in a place like Twelve, and we know we have to work fast.

Delly returns with the snow and we apply a thick layer of it. Peeta hisses, writhing on the table, and I go to him, kneeling down so he can see me. His eyes are watering, and there's bruise forming along his cheekbone.

"Hey, hey, look at me," I tell him, squeezing his hand. "You're alright, Peeta, I promise."

He stares at me, his breathing quick and uneven. "I'm getting a weird sense of déjà vu," he grinds out, and I almost cry before forcing out a laugh and pushing his hair back from his face.

"What did I tell you about getting in trouble?" I reply, and he smiles weakly I response.

My mother works fast, packing on the snow, but I can tell that she's listening, trying to piece together exactly what has happened in the past for this to be our present.

Rye is treating Gale, cleaning blood from his face. Gale's mother holds her oldest son's hand tightly, and listens to my brother's every word.

"Is he okay?" I ask, handing over snow wrapped in a cloth to be held against Gale's head.

"He tried to intervene. Cray knocked him out, beat him while he was down. But he'll be alright."

"Are you alright, Mrs Hawthorne?" I ask, turning to the older woman. She nods, lips pressed together in a thin line.

"I'd hoped that when we'd meet again, it would be in happier circumstances," she says quietly, and I nod in understanding. The last time we saw each other was when Rye and I dropped Peeta off at his house after Harris had attacked him.

"Where's father?" I ask when I go back into the main room, where Peeta is silent on the table, but still breathing. Mother is ransacking the drawers for something and answers over her shoulder.

"In the shop with the younger kids," she says. "Don't let them in just yet."

"What are you looking for?" I ask, and she turns around, putting a hand on her forehead.

"We had a canister of herbs that we used for things like this but it's gone," she replies, and I know that the last of what she was looking for was used long ago on the same person currently lying in front of her. "Cray may not have managed to get many lashes in but they're deep, and he's thin."

I go to Rye. "Where's the colweed?" I ask him, and his eyes widen.

"Grey cabinet, top left drawer," he says, and I find it right away, pulling out the pouch that Prim handed me oh so long ago. It seems fitting that it now comes into play.

"Where did you get this?" mother asks when I present the colweed to her, shocked.

"He gave it to me," I say, looking down at Peeta.

"It appears you have a lot of explaining to do," she replies, before starting to grind the flowers down, readying them for a paste. The snow melts quickly on Peeta's inflamed skin, and I help mother apply the colweed to each cut. They slash across his back in a macabre crosshatch pattern, and I know that if there had been more, we'd be in a very different situation right now. Mother is right. Because he's so thin, it's much more dangerous. If I were the one to face Cray's anger, I'd probably be able to withstand more hits. Though, I have no doubt that Peeta's mental endurance has played a big role in surviving so far, which would probably be my own downfall.

With the paste gone, we sew his skin shut. I'm glad Peeta's passed out for this, knowing how much it would hurt. Then, we seal gauze over each wound, and Delly collects more snow. She's clearly shaken, not used to this kind of thing after growing up in a shoe shop, not an apothecary, so I thank her but tell her that she should go into the shop and look after Prim and Gale's brothers, or run and tell her own family that she's okay.

I have no idea where Madge has gone, considering I saw her helping bring Gale back after her father arrived in the square, but she reappears just as the sun begins to set, carrying a box.

"Morphling," she explains. I take it, knowing that this is just what we need.

"Come in," I say, but she hesitates. I don't really know Madge that well, kind of intimidated due to her being the daughter of the mayor and all, but it's clear that there's something going on between her and Gale. I wonder if Peeta knew, if he saw how if a lowly miner and the mayor's daughter could be together, perhaps we could be too.

"It's not my place," Madge says, eyes flickering behind me.

"I saw you with Gale. In the square," I say, and she looks up at me.

"He used to trade with me," she says softly. "I – I don't know how to explain it."

I smile at her. She doesn't have to explain. I understand her predicament, and how her heart is leading her down a path she knows is riddled with obstacles. It's the same path I've found myself treading. "I'm sure he'd be happy to see you," I tell her, and her eyes widen. "Go on, Madge. Today isn't the day when our differences separate us."

She steps inside. I lead her to Gale, who's now awake, and the way his face brightens when he sees her there is enough to let me know that convincing Madge to come in was the right thing to do. Mrs Hawthorne looks a little confused, but understands soon enough and steps out to give her son and Madge a moment of privacy.

She lingers awkwardly by the door as I take the morphling to the table.

"From Madge," I tell my mother, and she nods, taking out a syringe and a bottle and preparing a dose. I turn to Mrs Hawthorne. She looks uncomfortable, standing here in a Merchant business that usually isn't a person's first stop when they're from the Seam. I'm about to speak, but my mother surprises me by speaking first.

"Hazelle," she says, tapping the syringe to rid it of bubbles before injecting it into Peeta, who whimpers before going limp on the table. Morphling is a powerful drug. It makes sense that only Madge would have it. "Your son will be alright, I promise. So will Peeta."

Hazelle raises her head, ever a proud Seam woman. "I don't know how I'm ever going to repay you, Dahlia," she says, but mother shakes her head.

"You don't need to. Lowell is in the shop. Go and see your kids."

Hazelle leaves, and I turn to mother. "I didn't know you knew her."

My mother's faces creases with something; regret, nostalgia, I'm not sure, but it's something I've never seen before. "We were good friends once," she says. "Especially with Aymee Mellark." I glance down at Peeta at the mention of his mother, but he's still unconscious, his face slack. "When Aymee left for the Seam, though, things changed. Things were said that couldn't be taken back, and…"

"I didn't know," I mumble.

"The Seam/town divide isn't as clear as you would think, Kit," she says quietly. "It's more complicated than that, you wouldn't understand." Then she looks at me, and then down at the Seam boy lying between us, and changes her mind. "Perhaps you do."

"I'm sorry, mother."

"None of this is your fault. It's just… it's just old beliefs, lingering on." She furrows her brow. "I'm sorry you felt you had to hide this from your father and me," she says, motioning to Peeta. "I understand why you did, but, I wish things were different, so that you wouldn't have to. Perhaps all this could've been avoided."

I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. "I think this was bound to happen."

"Things have gotten a lot better, now. When I was your age, mixed couples like that had a real hard time. That's what happened to Aymee. Hopefully this time things will be different."

I think of Madge and Gale. "I think they will," I say. I look down at Peeta. He was so afraid, more so than I was, but was stilling willing to carry on, to try. He's the bravest person I've ever met.

"It'll take time… for things to settle," says mother. "But you should know that we only care about your wellbeing. We just don't want you getting hurt."

...

Madge apologises when she leaves, but says that she promised her parents that she'd be back before curfew. She thanks me, and I thank her. I'm surprised when she hugs me tightly against her, bathing me in the scent of freshly washed cotton and perfume. She's the complete opposite of Gale in more ways than the obvious. I wonder how long after he warned me about Merchant/Seam relationships he started his own with none other than the mayor's daughter.

"Gale said Peeta liked you," she whispers into my ear. "He was scared about things going wrong but he never said why he thought they would, though we figured it wasn't just because he's Seam and you're not. I'm sorry it ended up like this."

"You couldn't have prevented it," I say, pulling away. "Your father saved us, though. Thank him for me, please."

"He's been trying to get rid of Cray for years," she says, stepping out into the street. "Goodnight, Katniss."

…

Rye offers to walk Delly home when she has to leave. She's still a little shaken up, but I thank her and hug her close, telling her that she did well.

"You really like him, don't you?" she says, and I feel my cheeks redden.

"Yes."

She nods. "I guess my advice fell on deaf ears, then?"

"I think at that point it was already too late," I say, and she smiles, shakes her head. "You're a good friend, Dels."

"I am, aren't I?" she sighs, squeezing my arm. "Let me know how things are."

"I will," I promise, and she and Rye disappear into the street.

…

Gale is still awake when I go back inside, stamping snow off my boots. His brothers are with him now, crowding into the small room. The youngest Hawthorne has been left at home, cared for by a family member.

Hazelle is clearly embarrassed by her rowdy children, but I think it's sweet, seeing how close they are to each other. My mother gives Gale some morphling to help with the pain, and my father walks Hazelle and her two sons back to the Seam once she's sure Gale is alright.

All that's left behind are the two Mellark siblings, myself, and my mother, who busies herself in the shop while I speak to Prim.

She's perched on a stool beside her brother, resting her head on the table. She's tough, tougher than I was at her age, but hugs me tight when I sit beside her.

"Are you alright?" I ask her, and she nods. "He's going to be alright. It isn't as bad as it looks."

"He always gets hurt," she mumbles, her voice small. "But he says it's okay because I'm safe." She furrows her brow, her eyes shining with tears. "I don't like it when he says that."

"Your brother loves you very much."

"Do you love him?" she asks, and I feel my heart skip a beat at her unexpected question. At my silence, she looks up at me.

"Yes, I do," I tell her, and she nods, satisfied with my answer. She yawns, then, and I see how exhausted she is. "Get some sleep, Prim," I say, guiding her to the second recovery room and helping her into bed.

Shortly after, Rye returns.

"There're keepers in the square, cleaning up. They asked how everyone was," he says, looking tired as he hangs up his jacket. "They said Cray'd been under pressure to find out who the culprit was and was looking for any excuse to punish someone for it."

That makes sense. With Cray's sudden enforcement of laws and liberal usage of various punishments, both against Merchants and Seam folk, he'd quickly become the most hated figure in the district, even more so than when he solicited starving girls for sexual favours. He'd taken his own failings as Commander and tried to control people who'd lost all respect for him long ago.

The result? A district against him. His own keepers against him. We'd had enough of how he'd been treating people, and his attempts to convict someone based on his own paranoia were met with resistance. Twelve may be divided in wealth, but in the face of men like Cray, we are united.

"Apparently the mayor sent out a request for a new Commander a few days ago. Cray was due to be removed anyway. He wanted to make a show of his power while he still had it."

"Plenty of people poach outside the fence," says mother. "He had no proof that either of these boys were involved."

Rye looks at me. I hold his gaze. I wonder how long it took him to figure it all out.

Father arrives not long after, shivering in the cold. Rye tells him the same thing he told us, and he nods in understanding.

"I thought Cray's reaction was strange. The Commander before him whipped freely but Cray never did. Today didn't make sense."

I tell them to head up to bed, insisting that since I'm essentially the reason why Peeta and Gale are in our care, I should be the one to look after them. My parents leave but Rye lingers.

"Do you know what you're getting yourself into?" he asks solemnly.

"Mother said that she used to be friends with Gale's mother, and Peeta's. That things were different then but they're changing now, for the better."

"That's not what I'm talking about. You know if…" he lowers his voice to a whisper. "If the truth gets out… the consequences, Kit, are enormous. We'll all be implicated."

I feel my chest tighten. I know the danger, but I never plan on letting that happen. No one else is going to get hurt, not on my watch.

"It won't get out," I say.

"How can you be so sure?"

I frown, thinking of all the secrets I've kept. "I just know," I reply. Rye seems troubled, and rightly so, but eventually leaves, heading upstairs and leaving me alone. I check on Gale. He's asleep, and his bandages haven't bled through, which is a good sign. Peeta is in much worse shape, but we're managed to stop most of the bleeding. It's the healing that will take time, especially for the deeper wounds, though by now he should be used to spending time in the apothecary.

I pull over a chair and sit beside him, clasping my hand in his. I bring his scarred knuckles up to my mouth a press a gentle kiss against the damaged skin, and when I look up again, I'm met with piercing blue eyes.

"Hey," he croaks.

"Hey," I reply. "How're you feeling?"

"Not great," he grimaces.

I raise an eyebrow. "How long have you been listening?"

"Long enough," he says. "You've got good folks, Katniss. Thank you for taking care of Gale and Prim. You didn't have to."

I smile at him. "Yes I did. And I'd never forgive my parents if they'd turned you away."

"I didn't know they were friends with my mom and Hazelle," he says, shifting slightly and then wincing. "That was certainly a surprise."

"It was," I agree. I look down at our hands tangled together. "Did you know - ? About Gale and Madge?"

"Sort of. Gale'd been gone and never really explained why… I figured it was a girl but it took a while for me to realise that it was Madge."

"What do you think of them… together?"

"I keep getting surprised by the people around me, so this wasn't too much of a shock. I'm not gonna let Gale hear the end of it, not after all the bitchin' he did when we were younger, complaining about townies."

"You didn't say the same things?"

"Not with the same intensity. I felt guilty, 'cus of my mom."

A spike of pain pierces my chest. "I'm so sorry, Peeta. All this… it's my fault. I promised that you wouldn't get hurt and look where you are."

"Don't," he murmurs. "Please don't say that."

I grip his hand tightly. His own fingers loosen against my own. His eyes droop. It's a miracle he's managed to drag himself out of the morphling-induced sleep he's been placed in, though I doubt he'll remember much of what was said here come morning.

"I'll be right here with you," I promise him, kissing his forehead. When I pull away, he's asleep.

…

Gale leaves the next day, well enough to walk home with a chaperone, and under strict instructions to come back in a few days' time for a check-up.

Peeta, however, won't be vacating his place on the table, let alone leaving to go home, for some time. The colweed is already working, but too much movement will pull the stitches and make things bad all over again, something we really don't want.

He drifts in and out of consciousness for the next three days, which I'm glad for when his mother makes an appearance, hammering on the backdoor and demanding to see her son.

My parents talk to her in the shop front, but I can pick up on snippets of their hushed argument. It starts of fairly pleasant, consisting of my parents saying hello to a woman who was once a friend, to telling her that no, Peeta needs to stay, to her yelling at them and them yelling back.

I watch Peeta. He remains still, not even twitching. I'm glad he doesn't see his mother burst in, hear the names she calls him, or watch her getting corralled out into the snow. A Peacekeeper is called to escort her back to the Seam. Prim went home with the Hawthornes, and I'm glad that Hazelle won't let her return to her mother.

…

A little while later, when Peeta's lucid, I reiterate what Rye said about the pressure the Capitol had been putting on Cray, about the mayor's attempts to have him removed, about Cray's desperation to find Harris' killer.

Peeta makes a low sound in his throat. "He knew. He knew I did it. He knew all along." I feel my chest tighten at his words, but Peeta doesn't notice my expression, staring dazedly into the distance. "He thought he'd have a quick execution on his hands. Get the Capitol off his back. Guess he didn't expect anyone to stand up for someone from the Seam."

I hold his hand tightly. "He'd made more than a few enemies in the past few weeks. Even in the Quarters."

Peeta hums. He grimaces. I fetch him some water, and inject another dose of morphling into his system, watching him fall into unconsciousness.

…

A week passes, before Peeta is able to leave the table. He leans heavily on a crutch, clearly in pain, but his shirt remains free of blood and he's able to reach the upstairs bathroom to bathe, even if it takes him twenty minutes of cursing.

…

At the two week mark, he's able to sit down and eat dinner with the rest of us. It's strange, having him here, but things go swimmingly. We laugh, we exchange stories, and not once do I feel nervous. Later, I ask Peeta how he felt about the whole thing, and his answer is a cautiously optimistic 'pretty good'.

…

He goes home after seventeen days of staying at the apothecary, and it's my mother who first comments on how it feels strange not to have Peeta here.

…

Peeta comes back to have his back checked on, but he ends up staying for most of the day. He's brought Prim along too, and she enjoys helping my parents concoct all manners of medicines, even teaching them a thing or two about which flowers can be used for what.

Peeta's back is healing well, but the scars left behind are jarring. Whenever I see them, crisscrossing across his back in silvery-pink stripes, my heart leaps to my throat. Peeta says it's okay because he can't see them unless he's looking in a mirror, which he says he actively tries to avoid, but I can see them, and I can't forget.

…

One night he stays so late that curfew begins without any of us realising it, and he's stranded.

"We've got plenty of room," says father.

"I don't want to inconvenience you," says Peeta.

"We were young, once, Lowell," says mother, giving my father a look that makes his eyes widen in realisation and my face turn beet red.

Peeta is the one laughing, when he's allowed to follow me up to my bedroom without either of my parents giving him a stern talking to. I shush him, mortified. _That kind of thing_ is not going to happen, so they really have nothing to worry about, but I know that it won't stop them from doing so.

In the confines of my room, however, things are different. It's dimly lit by the lamp by my bed, cramped but still cosy, and the house is quiet and warm. Peeta comments on it.

"In the Seam you can never get warm, not even wrapped up in all the blankets you have."

I make him turn around when I change into my nightgown, but he's peeking when I look back. I frown at him but he only laughs. I go to grab him something to wear, incidentally returning with the same items of my brother's that he wore during his last stay, so long ago. I find him stood by my bedroom window, looking out into the street.

I stand beside him and take his hand.

"So," he says, eyes fixed on number thirty-eight. "You could see."

I nod. "Yes."

"Every night."

I nod again. "I'm glad I did."

He opens his mouth to speak but I shake my head. "Let's go to bed," I tell him.I hand him his pyjamas, and pull the curtains tightly shut, blocking the street from view.

Then, we climb into bed together. It's the first time we've done such a thing, since each one of our clandestine meetings, although few, occurred outside in alleyways or inside tumble-down buildings. I let Peeta settle first. He still can't lie on his back, which makes things a little tight in my small bed, but it's alright. I slide my hand under his shirt, and feel the ridges of tender scar tissue that lie there.

Peeta furrows his brow after five minutes of silence. "How can you live with it, knowing he was just down the street?"

"You learn to forget," I shrug. "He was always there, so I thought nothing of it."

He puts one arm around me. "I guess."

I listen to my parents walk past my bedroom door, the floorboards creaking underfoot. I look at Peeta. He looks at me.

"I'm sorry I made things hard for you," he says softly. I frown. "At the beginning. I was scared. Confused about how I felt and as to why you liked me. I thought you were crazy.

I smile at him. "I think I am. And don't worry about any of that. I was scared too."

He sighs. "Are you still?"

"No. Are you?"

"With you by my side, I couldn't."

I feel my entire body thrum at his words. I stare, just taking him in. "I wish none of this ever happened to you," I whisper earnestly. "Not your parents, not Harris, not Cray. I'm sorry, Peeta."

He swallows. "It's in the past," he says. "That's where I want to keep it."

I nod.

We're quiet for a long while. When he closes his eyes, I think he's gone to sleep, and burrow into his side the best I can without hurting him. He finally speaks, voice low in my ear, and what he says surprises me.

"I knew Darius," he says. I match the name to the red-headed keeper shot by Cray in the square. His funeral was a few weeks ago. Half the district turned up to watch his coffin pass by. "He was a good man."

I kiss Peeta's shoulder. He loops his arm over my waist, and his fingertips trace soothing patterns over the small of my back until he falls asleep.


End file.
